


Vienna Waits For You

by panem_et_circenses



Series: Vienna Waits For You Verse [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Art Student Clarke, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fighter!Bellamy, Finn Being an Asshole, Idiots in Love, Minor Violence, Nude Model Bellamy Blake, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-05-21 05:13:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 41,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6039604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panem_et_circenses/pseuds/panem_et_circenses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke sort of launches herself - or maybe just her lips? - at Bellamy to avoid an awkward encounter with her ex. She just remembers him as her self-important TA from last semester and didn't really mean for it to be A Thing.</p><p>But the thing is, Octavia's just left home for college for the first time and Bellamy doesn't really know how to live his life if he's not smothering someone in over-protective ridiculousness and the long-distance makes that hard - so, when Clarke launches herself at him in the middle of a smokey club to avoid a frighteningly skeezy ex, he decides he's going to make it A Thing.</p><p>(Miller just thinks they're both crazy, though.)</p><p>
  <b>*Now with a BONUS mini-chapter to give you Bellamy's perspective during his epic fight with Finn.</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Billy Joel's "Vienna" - potentially my favorite song of all time.

Clarke has _never_ seen the benefit of a night out. The bars around campus are always crowded with underage underclassmen no matter what the bouncers at the door say and if she needs to pee after midnight, she inevitably has to wait for some coed to finish vomiting in a stall before she can go. And really, who even has the energy to be out that late anyway?

But Jasper had insisted and after four days of dodging phone calls and drop-in visits from Finn, getting drunk and forgetting about all of her responsibilities sounded pretty good. So that’s how she finds herself dodging through the sweaty dance floor at Feve, two drinks raised above her head as she searches for her friend.

She’s almost given up, debating the merits of just finding a quiet corner, downing both drinks by herself and then leaving, when she hears her name called through the crowd. She spins on her heels searching for the voice in the crowd. While she expects to find Jasper heading her way with that goofy grin on his face, it’s Finn that’s pushing through the masses of bodies and steadily progressing toward her.

Clarke panics, jumping and searching for something, _anything_ to stop this impending situation. To her left, she finds what can only be described as an orgy with far too many hands in far too many places that are far too inappropriate for Feve on a Thursday night. To her right is just the back wall of the club, because she actually made it all the way across the dance floor without finding Jasper, and that’s just no use. Spinning behind her she sees _him_.

Bellamy Blake.

He was the TA in her Medical Terminology class last semester and, considering it was a fluff pre-med class, he took his position _way_ too seriously. It took one self-important conversation wherein he criticized Clarke’s accentuation – really, in a class with absolutely _no_ Latin pre-reqs – and she had had it. It started off small, mostly just wasting his time with comments that were just _one_ tiny detail off so that he would feel compelled to launch into a giant rant to correct her and then it progressed to arguing with him over anything that almost had two sides to it.

But then one day Jasper overheard a conversation between Bellamy and Nathan, the other TA in the class. Nathan was showing Bellamy one of Clarke’s quizzes, complete with a stunningly accurately drawing of the male reproductive system, nearly in tears from laughter asking if Clarke had slept with him. Jasper claims that Nathan said, “It was so scarily accurate that I had to conjure up the image of you in the living room that day when your towel fell – you know how scarring that day was – just to double check. I had to think about your dick, man!” The questioning look of fear on Bellamy’s face as he handed the quiz back was the final nail in the coffin She spent the rest of the semester including anatomically correct male genitalia on every one of her assignments just to wig him out. Draw every bone in the foot? Sure but it’s going to be part of a bigger drawing from the waist down. It sort of became **A Thing**.

When faced with the choice between Finn and Bellamy, Clarke chooses the lesser of two evils. She dives straight for Bellamy, pushing one of the drinks into his open palm, breathing a sigh of relief when he closes his hand around it instinctually. “If there is any part of your cold, dead heart that still beats, you will kiss me right now.”

The face that he makes has Clarke thinking of one of her more favored drawings of last semester (technically of facial muscles, but if you’re thinking it didn’t go all the way down to the knees, you’re crazy), noting that he has impeccable control over his _levator labii superioris alaeque nasi_ muscle. Another look over her shoulder shows that Finn has broken through the edge of the crowd and will be right next to her within ten seconds.

A fresh surge of panic has her literally throwing herself at Bellamy, tilting her head up and silently praying that he acquiesces her here, because otherwise she’s just going to make a fool out of herself. It’s not without an audible sigh, but Bellamy _does_ lean down and seal his lips over hers. Clarke had been anticipating a quick peck, but of course Bellamy kisses the way that he argues. Before he pulls back, she feels the nip of his teeth against her bottom lip and a quick swipe of his tongue over the ache it leaves behind.

“Clarke?” Finn chokes from behind her, his voice pulling her back to the present situation.

Clarke rotates, keeping her back flush to Bellamy’s chest, and does her best to look surprised to see Finn. (Her best is still pretty pathetic. In the sixth grade she was the only person turned away from the casting of Oklahoma entirely, and frankly it was with good reason.) “Finn? What are you doing here?”

Finn’s eyes drag between Clarke and Bellamy, narrowing with each passing second. His chest heaves with deep breaths. “I was looking for you. We need to talk about the other day – it’s not what you were thinking.”

“I heard it the first time you said it, Finn, and another six times before I stopped listening to your voice mail.” Clarke sighs and has to actively stop herself from smacking a hand up against her forehead with just how dense Finn is. “Maybe _you_ didn’t hear me when I said that you’re a fucking asshole and I’m done with you.”

There’s a pregnant pause, but Finn doesn’t move to leave. Instead, he jerks his chin toward Bellamy. “And this guy?”

She’s suddenly made re-aware of Bellamy’s presence at her back, feeling a tenseness in his posture that she doesn’t remember before. If Clarke weren’t the world’s worst actress, she might have come up with an adequate answer. Instead, she just sort of gaped at Finn, failing to come up with anything that sounded plausible. Some plan.

Bellamy saves her, extending a hand to Finn before dropping it when he doesn’t reach out to shake it. “Bellamy Blake, second year grad student and, you know, _not_ a fucking asshole. Thanks for making these shoes so easy to fill.”

“I know who are you.” Finn seethes. “Everyone knows who you are.”

That makes Clarke pause, because why on earth would “everyone” know Bellamy Blake, nerd-tastic Classics buff and overly-serious TA extraordinaire? 

“Finn, just take a hint and leave me alone. It’s over and I’m over you. I don’t want to ‘talk’ about it or hear any other excuses you have.” Clarke takes a gulp of the drink nearly forgotten in her hand, pleased with the finality of the conversation and relishing in the burn of whiskey as it slides down her throat. It feels like a victory drink.

Finn shakes his head and runs his hands through his hair. His hair looks greasy and unkempt under the neon lighting and Clarke cringes retro-actively at her poor taste. “I’m not done with you, princess, just remember that. I’m going to do whatever it takes to find my way back to you.” Mercifully, with the last word on his side, he disappears back through the crowd.

“Ex-boyfriend?” Bellamy asks, still so close that she can feel the rumble of his voice roll through his chest.

“Ex-boyfriend.” Clarke confirms, finally stepping away and turning back to face him. “Sorry about that, I’m not sure what I was thinking. If you ever need a diversion from a crazy, unwanted suitor, I’ve got your back.”

Bellamy nods thoughtfully, his eyes roaming Clarke’s face in a way that just unnerves her. “He does seem to be a few screws loose, doesn’t he?”

Clarke shrugs, playing their six-month relationship back in her head. “He’s always been the ‘burn down the world and pull you out of the ashes’ type. At the beginning, I thought it was romantic. Even after that honeymoon phase, it was still just a personality quirk. Of course, then I walked in on him with his head between another girl’s legs last weekend. Unless she lost a prized possession up there, I’m not sure how that could be anything other than what it looked like. Anyway, between the hundreds of post-break up phone calls and the dodging around him _everywhere I go_ , the less than sane implications of that personality quirk have started to become a little clearer.”

There’s another long pause wherein Bellamy studies her some more. It goes on long enough that Clarke starts to squirm, shifting her weight between her feet and taking another long pull from the whiskey in her hand. When Bellamy breaks the silence, his voice is low and serious. “You worried he might do something to hurt you?”

Immediately, Clarke opens her mouth to ask what could hurt worse than walking in on your boyfriend cheating on your own birthday, but then she realizes that he means _physically_ and her mouth snaps shut with an audible click. She’s never put too much thought into it. Two weeks ago she would’ve laughed at the possibility that Finn would lay a hand on her - on most anyone really, Finn was nothing if not a bit crunchy - but she would’ve laughed at the possibility of a few other things that she’s been proven wrong on, as well.

Instead, Clarke finds herself thinking back to the time that she got jostled a little at a concert over the summer. The look of pure rage on his face as he talked, low and menacing, to a guy who’d accidentally knocked into her hard enough that she fell to the ground. Finn was, on principle, a peaceful guy, but it didn’t feel unjustified to worry about what he would do if he were a little unhinged. And, well, as Bellamy aptly pointed out, he seemed to be a few screws loose right now.

Clarke shrugs, because what else can she do? If anything happens, she’ll handle it. “It’ll be fine.” Finally, she spots Jasper bobbing his way through the crowd, closer to flailing than dancing and horribly off-beat. “Thanks again for the save. Go ahead and keep the drink – think of it as payment for services rendered.”

With that, she knocks back the rest of the whiskey and leaves the empty glass on a high-top table before heading toward Jasper in the crowd.

_____________________________________________________________________________

Bellamy finds himself staring at the spot where Clarke disappeared after she’s long gone. Eventually, Miller has to wave a hand in front of his face to get his vision to re-focus. “Dude, you good?”

Bellamy blinks once, twice. “Clarke Griffin just kind of threw herself at my face to get her ex-boyfriend to back off.”

“The Dick Chick?” Miller asks, before bursting out into a fresh peel of laughter. And yeah, alright, that first drawing last semester had been a little scary – his dick just happens to have that exact same freckle under the head and it does lean just a little to the left – but the ensuing onslaught of unsolicited dick pics (that were sort of his own dick?) was just overboard.

He nods anyway.

“Was the dick thing an elaborate ruse to try to goad you into actually showing her yours? Is this her latest plan to get into your pants, or something?” Miller was insistent last semester that Clarke’s constant antagonizing was a sign of attraction, like they were in grade school still. It’s not like he even believed it in the spring, but her recent break up clearly proves that theory wrong, anyway. Apparently she was already with someone then.

Bellamy shoves at Miller, but his heart’s not in it. “Quit it. She was really freaked out and the ex was creepy as shit. Seemed like a real ‘if I can’t have you, no one can’ type. He might actually be carving out a hole in his closet for a shrine consisting of locks of her hair.”

Miller narrows his eyes before shaking his head vigorously. “Don’t do it, man. Just don’t.”

“Don’t do what?”

“I get it, really. O just left for college. It’s the first time in years that you haven’t had to hover over another human like some kind of mother hen. You should be taking advantage of your newfound freedom – get laid for once. Don’t go around adopting stray puppies and forcing your unwanted care and affection on them. Dick Chick’s not yours to protect.”

Bellamy brings one hand up to scratch at the back of his neck, only realizing now he’s still got Clarke’s drink in the other hand. “I wasn’t thinking about it like that.” He takes the drink to his lips and downs it in one swift gulp – bourbon. Not bad, actually. 

“Yes you were.”

Yeah, he was. Thing is, he still is. If Clarke’s ex is about to go Kill Bill on her, he’s not just going to sit around and let it happen.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for any mistakes! This is entirely un-edited.

Bellamy doesn’t _mean_ to start stalking Clarke, it’s an accidental sort of thing, but stalking is probably the only appropriately descriptive word.

It’s been a little over two weeks since Octavia left for college. The first couple of days were great. He spent a lot of time cleaning out the Bellamy-only Netflix queue filled with documentaries and Sci-Fi and eating all the foods he tried to make sure his little sister avoided. He sleeps in late on days that he doesn’t have early classes, glad to not have to wake up someone else for the first time. He brings a couple of girls by, has some loud sex – the way he likes but was rarely able to do with O always around. He even gets to walk around aimlessly naked, which is better in theory than in practice, admittedly. Bacon grease is not a substance one ever wants on bare skin - _especially_ bare skin below the waist. It was a scarring day in more ways than one.

But after two weeks his Netflix queue ran out and he’s given up on the benefits of casual nudity – there really are none, despite what Miller claims – and is a little disgusted with himself by the fact that of the three girls he’s brought home in the last week, he doesn’t think he could pick any of them out of a crowd. So the Monday after he’s suddenly reintroduced to Clarke Griffin, he finds his feet carrying him to campus at 8:00, despite not having class until 11:00.

He doesn’t even realize he’s looking for her until he’s found her. She’s like something plucked from an epic – hair cascading around her, blown backwards by the force of the breeze she creates as she jogs across the south quad. Everything about her posture screams violence. It sets him on edge because he’s sure that this must have something to do with the douchebag ex-boyfriend. Bellamy doesn’t think that Clarke ever carried herself like this last semester.

So he follows her.

At a distance, of course, where she won’t see him and redirect her rage toward him. But she’s running at a clip and if he’s going to keep up, he _also_ has to run and it’s hard not to draw attention to oneself running across the quad, so he ducks behind a few buildings and into the shadows.

That’s how he finds himself in the thin alley between the Engineering building and one of the men’s dorms, watching Clarke yell at a girl who looks vaguely familiar. With the volume level, it’d be harder _not_ to hear what Clarke is saying, but standing in an alley and listening to someone’s conversation without them knowing…

Stalking.

He didn’t leave home with the conscious intention of stalking Clarke Griffin today, but he can certainly see how it might look that way.

Bellamy watches Clarke – and then the other girl, equally fiery – yelling for a few moments. They both accuse each other of stealing the douchebag boyfriend. Confused looks are exchanged, and then the conversation hushes a bit so that he can’t hear anymore. Accidental stalking is one thing, but if he finds a way to move closer now, it’ll be on purpose and he can’t stomach that so he instead stays in the shadows and watches while he waits. Eventually, the two girls part, but not before exchanging phone numbers. 

For the sake of his pride, Bellamy would like to be able to say that he moved on from there. He’s seen Clarke. He knows that nothing tragic happened between Thursday night and Monday morning – the douchebag hasn’t successfully murdered her, at least. That should be enough, but he’s got this niggling doubt in the back of his mind. This tiny voice that says that Clarke is in trouble and he’s going to be able to protect her. That voice, like it always has in his life, wins out.

He finds himself following Clarke all the way across campus to the library and winds up settling into one of the big bean bag chairs in the study room with all the glass walls – he’s always called it the Fish Bowl. Clarke is just through the glass in one of the quieter rooms, pulling out so many textbooks from her backpack that he’s wondering if she defied the laws of science to fit them all in there in the first place.

When 10:55 clicks by and Bellamy has passed the point of being able to make it to his first class of the day, he’s resigned himself to spending the rest of his day stalking Clarke.

Just to make sure that the douchebag doesn’t come along and skin her to make a meat-suit.

______________________________________________________________________

Raven Reyes is like nothing Clarke expected. She saw red when she spotted Raven for the first time after the Finn incident, nearly sprinting across campus chasing her down. Raven let her yell for a minute or two, calmly taking in the accusations that Clarke was throwing before finally dropping the bomb:

She’d been seeing Finn for over a year. Started dating him last fall, left for a semester abroad in the spring without breaking things off, came back at the start of the semester a few weeks ago to pick up where things left off. Finn never mentioned that he was seeing anyone else. That one throws Clarke’s world off the axis. She’s spent an entire week splitting her seething hatred between Finn and the mystery girl and now she has to direct _all_ of that energy at only Finn. 

She apologizes to Raven for all of the terrible things she’s said and they exchange numbers, promising to meet up later in the week to talk. Clarke isn’t sure if they’re going to talk about Finn and how they want to handle him, or if they’re just going to meet and chat. If she’s being honest, she’s okay with either outcome. Once she gets past the initial shock, Raven seems pretty great and she could use a new friend – especially of the female variety.

So when Wednesday evening rolls around and she gets a text from Raven asking if she wants to grab dinner at the pub just off campus, she grabs her keys without hesitation. They wind up splitting nachos and a couple of happy hour beers, trading bad Finn stories.

“He once wrote me the lyrics to a Taylor Swift song as a love poem. When I asked him about it, he said he’d never heard the song and insisted he wrote it himself.” Clarke shakes her head, the retroactive shame so strong. “I decided it was sweet that he wanted to impress me, but now I just can’t decide which is worse: either he doesn’t remember hearing the song and he genuinely thinks he wrote it, or he thought I’d have never heard it and he could’ve gotten away with it.”

Raven has to wipe tears out of her eyes from laughing so hard before she grows stoic. “I can top that, I promise. He got me arrested.” Clarke’s eyes go wide and she has to forcibly stop herself from spitting out her IPA. “Yeah, he took me out stargazing – turns out it was private property and the owner called the cops on us. Finn ran when he saw the lights in the distance and left me behind to take the blame! I didn’t get booked when I explained it, but he didn’t even come pick me up from the station. I had to call another friend.”

Clarke shakes her head and takes another swig of beer, chasing it with a cheesy nacho. “Why did we ever think dating him was a good idea? He’s such an ass – how did he manage to get one awesome girlfriend, let alone two?”

Raven shrugs. “He seemed nice, I guess. I was looking for nice.”

“Me too.” Clarke agrees. Finn was a refreshing change from the men her mom usually set her up with – mostly in that he acted like he was trying to impress _Clarke_ and not her mother.

“Jesus, he wasn’t even good in bed!” Raven buries her head in her hands.

Clarke groans. This is really pretty painful – reliving her less than stellar relationship with her ex-boyfriend and his other girlfriend, realizing just how awful he was. She hopes that it’ll be like a purge session and when they finish she’ll feel better. “Sometimes I would fake it just so he would stop slobbering on me. I can’t even count on my fingers the number of times I had to kick him out so I could just get myself off.”

Raven makes a face like she’s just sucked on a lemon and just shakes her head. “First thing I did after I dumped Finn was go find someone to sleep with – get him out of my system. I think I forgot that sex could actually be awesome.”

“I’ve never actually been with anyone but Finn.” Clarke admits and she’d say it was the beer, but it’s been almost two hours and this is only her second one. It’s just Raven. Clarke likes her, feels comfortable around her.

“No. Nope, no way.” Raven’s eyes bulge and she wags a finger in the air at nothing in particular. “I’m sorry, but there should not be anyone running around this earth who has only experience the sexual prowess of _Finn Collins_. We’ve got to get you laid before you let your Finn memories ruin you for sex forever.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. I’m not really into the casual sex thing.”

Raven shrugs. “Fair enough. No pressure, but if the day comes let me know, I’m sure we could find you a man in no time.”

“I’ll do that.” Clarke says and finds that she means it.

“All right, I’ve got to go meet some people on campus for a strategy meeting. Senior engineering students get to do this big year-long project in lieu of a thesis, but it’s kind of a beast. Me? I’d love to procrastinate until April, but my project manager isn’t so inclined.” She takes a couple of bills out of her pocket, casual as you like, and slaps them down onto the bar counter. “Text me, though. I think if Finn has made one positive impact on the world it’s this friendship.”

Clarke laughs. “Agreed. I’ve got this standing monthly movie night with a couple of friends this weekend. I’ll text you details if you want to drop by.”

She watches Raven walk out of the restaurant and that’s when she spots him.

Bellamy.

He’s sitting at a high-top with a beer in his hand and he’s alone. She’s been seeing him _everywhere_ this week and, maybe at first she thought it was just a coincidence – you know, once you start thinking about someone you see them everywhere – but now she’s sure it’s not. The library on Monday, walking across the quad to her evening class, her shift at the coffee shop yesterday, in the hallway after her chemistry lab last night.

Like Raven, Clarke leaves some money on the bar and stomps over to Bellamy. “Listen, I know I’m an amazing kisser, but I thought I made myself clear last week. I only kissed you to keep Finn off my back, so why the hell are you stalking me?”

Bellamy takes another swig from his glass, looking at her over the rim. He shrugs, the picture of calm. “At first I was worried the douchebag might do something. He really is incredibly creepy. I was worried he might try to do something. Now I’m just _waiting_ for him to do something so that I have the excuse to beat him into a pulp without feeling guilty about it.”

Bellamy keeps his hand gripped around the pint glass in his hand, but lifts one finger to point toward the far side of the bar. Sure enough, there’s Finn, staring right back at her, unblinking. Clarke nearly jumps out of her skin. “How long has he been there? Has he been following me, too?”

She’s been so focused on looking out for Bellamy for the last couple days that maybe Finn’s been around the whole time and she just hasn’t noticed him. For some reason, the idea that Bellamy has been following her is annoying at worst. Finn following her actually makes her skin crawl and her pulse race with a kick of fear.

“Long enough that I’m running out of patience waiting for him to do something. Soon I’m going to have to kick his ass anyway.” Bellamy stops, rolls his eyes skyward for a moment, considering. “I probably still won’t feel guilty, but I’ll have to pretend and that will be annoying.”

Clarke tries hard _not_ to look at Finn, but it’s impossible and she gives into the urge to glance back around. He’s still looking their way, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I’ll admit that it’s sweet of you to worry, but you realize you’re being just as creepy as him, right?” At least logically, she can recognize this. “And what was your plan? Follow me around for the rest of forever?”

Bellamy shrugs. “I wasn’t really planning ahead that far. I just happened to find myself with a lot of spare time that I wasn’t sure what to do with. You’re, you know, not so bad that I’m willing to let you get murdered for revenge. It seemed like the thing to do. When I noticed that he was actually stalking you, I couldn’t just _stop_.”

“Fine, but-“

“Kiss me.” Bellamy blurts, cutting her off and leaning in closer across the table.

Clarke blanches. “What?”

“Jeffery Dahmer just stood up and he’s on his way over. Wasn’t your cover last week that we’re dating?” He arches a single eyebrow at her. “Kiss me.”


	3. Chapter 3

Clarke is sure there’s a valid argument against kissing Bellamy - something like, are all of the couples you know always sucking face when you walk into a room? - but it's not one that she can think of in a handful of seconds with her heart thundering in her chest, so she meets him half way across the table and allows him to kiss her briefly. It’s not vicious like the kiss at Feve last week, but short and sweet and she can feel a blush rise high in her cheeks anyway.

“Bellamy Blake.” Finn growls as they part, the level of his voice making it clear that he’s right beside the table now. He doesn’t directly acknowledge Clarke, which makes her equal parts glad and nervous.

“Douche bag.” Bellamy retorts, clearly mocking the tone of Finn’s voice. His fingers slide easily along the table, trailing lightly along the back of Clarke’s hand until she turns it so that he can twine their fingers together. He has nice hands, Clarke realizes dumbly, suddenly regretting that she spent so much of last spring focused on other parts of the male anatomy.

Finn’s eyes dart briefly to their intertwined hands before settling squarely back on Bellamy. “This weekend at Sigma Tau. I’m going to beat you and Clarke’s never going to come near you again.”

Clarke has no idea what he’s talking about, but her blood boils and Bellamy just laughs. “Clarke will make her own decisions, thank you very much.” She tells him, venom behind each meticulously enunciated word.

“We’ll see.” Finn says. With a final look, he brushes past Bellamy, knocking his shoulder against him like he's playing some bit part in a bad greaser movie before heading out the door.

With Finn’s departure, Clarke is so busy glaring at Bellamy and waiting for an explanation that it takes her a full minute to realize that they’re still holding hands on the table top. It’s when she jerks her hand back that he sighs and says, “Honestly, it’s going to be easier to just show you than to try and explain it. Where do you live? I’ll pick you up Saturday at 9.”

“Three days of stalking me and you don’t know where I live?” She raises an eyebrow at him. “Are you being polite and _pretending_ that you don’t know, or are you actually just a terrible stalker?”

The smirk he gives her is devastating. It’s the kind that could have panties dropping across campus, but the bashful way that Bellamy drops his eyes tells Clarke that he's probably not even aware of its power. “Little of both. Somewhere to the east of campus. Probably the Foundry, but I’m not entirely sure.”

Clarke considers him for a long moment. The number of things that she knows about Bellamy can be counted on one hand:  
1) He has a little sister that he loves more than anything, but Clarke can’t remember her name. He had a habit of mentioning her on days where he took over class lectures.  
2) The other medical terminology TA, Nathan, is his best friend.  
3) He seems to hate Finn nearly as much as she and Raven do.  
4) ~~He’s kind of a really great kisser.~~

5) ~~Oh, yeah, and she apparently knows what his dick looks like?~~

Even if his concern seems bafflingly genuine, Bellamy has admitted to essentially stalking her for the last few days. Going to a mysterious frat party with some mysterious showdown with Finn alone with him seems like all kinds of bad news, no matter how cute his smirk might be.

Clarke shakes her head at him. “How about I _meet_ you at Sigma Tau at 9 and I’ll bring a friend along so you don’t try to murder me?”

Bellamy spends a moment scrutinizing her in silence before acquiescing with a nod. “Okay, just uh, if you want to blend in, the dress code for girls at these kinds of things tends to lay more on the side of…less.”

“I’m supposed to wear something ‘less’?” She asks, skeptical and complete with air quotes.

“Yeah, you know.” Bellamy proceeds to shamelessly mime something that translates directly into ‘cleavage’ and ‘lots of leg.’ It’s bad enough that Clarke pretends not to understand at first so that he’ll do it again, just so that she can laugh at him. He obliges, but the smirk on his face tells her that he's not unaware that she's mocking him.

“I will promise to find my sluttiest dress if you promise not to go following me around between now and Saturday.” Really, with all the places she’s seen him around, he must be missing some important life commitments – work, classes, study time, friends?

“Only because you asked so nicely.”

______________________________________________________________________________

It was easy to stay away from Clarke after Wednesday, partially because he felt more secure knowing that he was going to see her this weekend, knowing he’d have another chance to make sure that she was okay. Mostly, though, it was knowing that Finn had decided he was settling things with Bellamy in the ring. At the very least, he felt secure that Finn wasn’t going to try anything with Clarke until after the fight, even if just to not provoke Bellamy more.

(Besides, he never breaks a promise.)

It’s been a long time since Bellamy felt nervous walking into a fight. For those first couple of months, there was always this low-grade fear humming through his system – what if he lost and was never invited back? What if he got seriously injured and wasn’t able to take care of Octavia anymore? What if he wound up seriously hurting someone else? How was he supposed to live with that?

After the first few fights were under his belt without a hitch, it became more of a routine than anything else – a second job. Three days a week he worked at the library on campus, then on Saturdays he went to whichever rotating frat house it happened to be and he bloodied up his knuckles and walked out with a stack of cash.

Tonight, however, he’s anxious again.

Miller sighs as they round the corner onto frat row, jogging at a steady pace. “I should probably have you committed. You know that, right?”

Bellamy tries to huff, but with the jogging it comes across more like he’s out of breath. “I’m not crazy.”

Miller is clearly unconvinced, because he presses on. “You’re at least a little crazy. 30-40% crazier than the average person.”

“You can’t measure craziness like it's some kind of statistic. There isn’t a sliding scale of crazy.”

“Pretty sure I just did.” He reaches out to slap Bellamy on the shoulder. “Look, Finn Collins has never been my favorite person in the world, but he’s not a serial killer. He’s just your run of the mill douchebag.” Bellamy caved and admitted to his less-than-ethical stalking while he and Miller at lunch on Thursday. After Bellamy finished running through the shortened version of everything he’d learned, Miller realized that the douchebag ex-boyfriend was the very same Finn Collins he had gone to high school with. Small world.

They come to a halt in front of Sigma Tau, both hunching slightly to catch their breath. “No. Nope. Absolutely not. If anyone is 30-40% crazier than the average person, it’s _Finn_. He was following her!”

Miller gives him a look that translates clearly in all languages to ‘you’re an idiot’ and throws his hands up. “ _You_ were following her!”

Bellamy visibly bristles, scrunching his face up in horror. “I was protecting her from him!”

“Maybe he thought he was protecting her from _you_!” Miller heaves a long-suffering sigh and forces himself to calm down. “Look, I get it, I called this one, alright? For the last six years there have been precisely two people in your life – me and Octavia. We’re used to your adjusted levels of craziness and we can sort of rationalize it when you do stupid shit, but Dick Chick doesn’t know you.”

“You and O aren’t the only people in my life.” Bellamy grumbles, one hand running through his hair, trying to intimidate it back into place. The wind and the sweat probably haven’t done wonders for keeping it tame. “There are plenty of people in my life.”

Miller shrugs. “The only people in your life with no interest in getting in your pants. Semantics. That’s beside the point, which is that Clarke isn’t going to be charmed by your creepy act. You’ve got to act like a normal human.”

Bellamy opens his mouth and Miller immediately slaps his hand over it. “You are not, nor have you ever been, a normal human. Don’t even pretend.”

It’s easy to slap Miller’s hand away with one hand and raise the other to smack him upside the head, hard enough to make him jerk but light enough to still be called affectionate. “I was going to say that I’m not trying to charm her. I just want to make sure that her parents don’t get her back piece by piece in the mail.”

Miller laughs and shakes his head. “Keep telling yourself that, man. You going to be able to hold yourself together?”

“Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I?”

Even in the dwindling, late-night summer sunlight, it’s easy to see what Miller gestures toward with a jerk of his chin. Leaning heavily against one of the big columns of the Sigma Tau house is Clarke and she’s made good on her promise. From a distance, the dress looks more like it’s been painted on her body than it does like fabric. It’s clearly short, indecently short even, and strapless. And she wears it with classic black…chucks.

Maybe he _does_ want to charm her, if the way his throat goes suddenly dry is any indication.

“Dick Chick!” Miller yells companionably, striding toward where she’s waiting with little regard for both leaving Bellamy behind or re-introducing himself with the horrid nickname.

Bellamy doesn’t really expect Clarke to just accept the nickname. He figures she might yell at him, smack him even, or at least come up with something equally tragic in response. Instead, she smiles and says, “I’m flattered that my reputation lives on.”

Miller slings an arm around her shoulder like they’ve been best friends for years. “I’d managed to block out the image of Bell’s nether regions for a solid three years before you brought those memories back to the surface. We talk about you in therapy every week, so it’d be hard to forget.”

Clarke laughs and it’s not dainty or restrained, but loud and hiccupping and refreshing all the same. “Dick Chick?” Bellamy hears someone asks as he approaches and that’s what finally makes him take his eyes off of Clarke to notice that she’s with a guy. He’s tall with hair that seems to be _everywhere_ and on top of the mess he’s got goggles of all things. At the casual way that he brushes Clarke’s hair out of her eyes, Bellamy suppresses an ugly feeling bubbling in his stomach pushes through the fog of his memory to figure out where he’s seen this guy before.

Medical Terminology, he realizes. He wasn’t in the class, but sometimes he would show up anyway and sit with Clarke. Sometimes he would get kicked out before the end of class, sometimes they both would, even, but rarely did they just sit there and concentrate for the whole two hours.

They’re friends. That’s right, she wanted to bring someone to make sure that he wasn’t going to get her into trouble. Bellamy refuses to acknowledge the fact that the ugly feeling in his stomach has settled at that.

“Bellamy?” It’s Clarke’s voice that refocuses him on the scene in front of him and she’s looking at him like he’s crazy, so he’s clearly missed something important.

He clears his throat and croaks a froggy, “Yeah?”

She quirks an eyebrow at him and speaks slowly. “I said, this is Jasper – he’s a friend of mine.” Bellamy reaches out a hand to shake Jasper’s.

“So,” Jasper starts, tucking his hands back into the pockets of his jeans. “Care to elaborate on what we’re doing here and why, exactly, Clarke had to find – and I quote – the really slutty dress that she outgrew three years ago?”

Miller starts and whirls around on him. “You didn’t tell her?”

Bellamy shrugs. “How do you really explain it?”

“My friend here happens to be a bit of a celebrity in the underground, nitty-gritty world of bare-knuckle boxing at this fine University.” It’s hard not to miss the way that both Clarke’s and Jasper’s eyes go a bit wide at that. “Week after week pathetic douchebags challenge Bellamy. Every week he shows up and kicks their asses and walks away with a big stack of cash. This week, the role of pathetic douchebag will be played by Finn Collins, also known as douchebag ex-boyfriend to one Dick Chick aka Clarke Griffin.”

“So you beat people up for money?” Jasper asks, clearly skeptical.

Bellamy runs a hand up the back of his neck, feeling himself flush a little. “Kind of. I don’t know. It sounds bad when you put it like that.” He also doesn’t know how to put it any better which is why he avoided trying to explain it at all. He jerks his chin toward the front door and says, “Let’s go – you can see for yourself.”


	4. Chapter 4

Clarke has been in college for two years now and aside from one particularly traumatizing night freshman year, she’s avoided frat parties like the plague. Like bars and clubs, they’re overcrowded with overly-intoxicated people. The air is always thick with sweat and smoke, the music is terrible and loud enough that the bass vibrates through her chest in a way that drowns of the gentle thrum of the beat of her heart. (Ever since her father’s heart attack when she was sixteen, Clarke has had a thing about heart beats – she feels supremely uncomfortable when she doesn’t have the ability to feel her heart beating soundly, like the first moment that she’s not paying attention it will go rogue on her like her father’s did.)

The first floor of the Sigma Tau house is precisely like what Clarke expects -- and actively avoids -- about frat parties. A tall, leggy red-head is dancing on the kitchen island, still sober enough to successfully dodge the hanging lights, but apparently drunk enough to be unfazed by everyone being able to see up her skirt. One of those horrible rap songs blares through the whole place, the kind with a solid beat but words that you can’t even begin to understand because they’re half-mumbled and half-nonsensical. 

Clarke has to remind herself that she’s here for a reason to stop herself from just turning around and heading straight back home. Jasper’s hand finds its way to her shoulder and squeezes. He was there the night of that first frat party freshman year. As soon as the bass started thumping she sprinted from the party in heels. She’d been shaking on the sidewalk, hyper-ventilating in the midst of a panic attack when Jasper sat down next to her and started to rub her back gently. It was actually the night they became friends. 

Bellamy shuffles on her other side, just inside the door way. “Come on, it’s –“ he starts, but he’s cut off by a loud chorus of yelling from somewhere in the back of the house. His shoulders rise and fall and his head drops back like he’s letting out a long sigh, but Clarke can’t hear it over the din.

Instead, Bellamy just reaches out and twines his fingers with Clarke’s. It’s casual, comfortable, like it was in the pub the other day. He uses their intertwined hands as leverage to tug her along behind him as he weaves through the crowd. Jasper’s hand slips from her shoulder, but she’s confident that he’s keeping up, though she has no idea where Nathan has disappeared to.

They come to a halt on the far side of the kitchen in front of a door that she thinks must lead to a basement. There’s a guy in front of the door who Clarke can only think to describe as slimy, sort of weasel-y, but he’s doing his best to look intimidating – arms crossed over his chest, mouth screwed into a scowl, eyes narrowed. 

“Blake.” The weasel-y guy grunts and steps aside. The once over that he gives Clarke as she steps up to the doorway makes her skin crawl. He strikes her as the kind of guy who might be good friends with Finn, bonding over mutual creepiness.

Bellamy’s grip is still firm on Clarke’s hand as they descend the stairs on the other side of the door, Jasper and (she’s confirmed) Nathan still trailing behind. The scene in the basement is entirely different than the party upstairs.

The space is open from wall to wall and imbued with the chill that all unfinished basements seem to have – concrete floors, cinderblock walls, narrow windows at the ceiling that must be covered in a thick film of grime for all the light they're letting in. There must be close to a hundred people packed into the basement, which should make the crowd less dense than upstairs, but the entire center of the large room is blocked off by a thin rope that runs in a square-ish shape around four large structural columns. There’s a brief moment of relief as Clarke realizes that the roaring music from the party upstairs is silenced by the solid floor of separation, allowing her to feel the reassuring thump of her heart in her chest again, but the relief is short-lived.

Clarke has just gotten to the landing at the bottom of the stairs when the crowd erupts into raucous cheers – some positive, some declarations of love or propositions of baby-making, others are threats and jeers. She can’t see what’s caused the change in demeanor for a crowd that was casually milling just moments ago.

She spares a glance at where Jasper stands a few steps up, transfixed by what must be happening in the roped-off center of the room. The boxing, she realizes. All of these people are here for this boxing league? It baffles Clarke that this could be such a major event and she’s never even _heard_ of it. Secondarily, she can’t believe that there are this many people who are interested in watching a couple of guys beat on each other. Isn't that what college football is for?

Bellamy is undeterred – by the change in the crowd, by the frozen stature of her friend, by everything, it seems – he just continues tugging her steadily along. It occurs to Clarke that she could probably drop his hand, turn around and at least fall back with Jasper on the steps. The thing that’s stopping her is that apparently this crowd is his element. Nathan had called him a “celebrity” and so, potentially against logic, she trusts that he’s not going to lead her astray – getting lost in this crowd feels dangerous, anyway, with the energy that’s crackling.

The droves of people part for Bellamy as he progresses gradually toward the center of the room. Clarke isn’t deaf to some of the comments he garners as they move, nor to the less flattering looks and comments that she earns herself as eyes fall to their entwined hands. When they reach the edge of the roped-off area – the _ring_ \- she tugs her hand from Bellamy’s and brings both hands up to grip the rope.

In front of her, two men are circling each other. The taller of the two is broader in his shoulders, but leaner with dark skin, and thick tribal tattoos roping over his arms while his opponent is shorter and more solid, pale with a Mohawk that drops back into long dreadlocks. From her vantage point, Clarke can see the taller man grin before he lunges forward.

The pale man drops, ducking to the side to avoid his opponent's advance and bringing a brutal fist against the man’s ribs. They part again and the volume level in the crowd raises – Clarke can’t tell whether they’re excited or disappointed. They circle each other on light feet and Clarke can see that they’re both grinning. When they dive into each other again they grapple and trade blows. The tattooed guy gets in three quick shots to his opponent’s jaw, traded for a couple of body shots and one particularly harsh hook that he takes in return.

They continue fighting in this way – quick bouts of trading blows before reverting back to circling each other like predators. It has to have been less than five minutes when it becomes clear that the taller guy is going to win. His opponent is slowing down substantially, though his reflexes are still carrying him to dodge and block, his movements are sluggish enough that he’s no longer moving in time. It’s one final uppercut to his chin that has him staggering back, spitting blood onto the concrete before he double-taps one of the columns. It must be a signal for surrender because the crowd roars to life again with cheers and hollers.

The chant that starts as the losing guy is taken off the floor tells Clarke that the winner’s name is Lincoln – or at least he goes by Lincoln here. He smiles good-naturedly and gives a cheesy bow, apparently unaffected by the cut that his opponent opened in his lip that dribbles down his chin slightly, nor by the couple dozen body shots he took that had Clarke cataloguing possible broken ribs and internal bruising.

Lincoln leaves the ring and casually brushes off the hands of admirers as he makes his way through the crowd toward where his opponent was taken. Clarke blows out a deep breath when he disappears from sight, mind reeling.

“That’s what you do?” Clarke asks, not needing to take her eyes off the crowd across from her for Bellamy to know that she’s taking to him.

He’s standing close enough that she feels him shift as he shrugs. “I guess, yeah. It’s supposed to be a fun thing. This sorority girl started it when they wouldn’t let her join the men’s boxing club and it was a place for people to come blow off steam, a real fight club sort of vibe. Then the betting started and, well, when the Commander realized that she could blow off steam, defy stereotypes _and_ make some quick cash, the league was born.”

“So who does this? Is this just frat guys now who want the opportunity to show off in front of a crowd and prove that they’re the manliest of all the men? Because if that’s the case, they should probably all just sit down and take a ruler to their junk and be done with it.”

“It’s not exactly like that. There are some locals who are in on it – like Lincoln and Nyko there. It’s some of the frat guys, but other people on campus, too. Two years ago there were even a few professors who wanted in.” Bellamy huffs a laugh through his nose, shaking his head. “It was a big production to get them here without giving away details that could get everyone expelled – blindfolds and earmuffs, the whole nine yards.”

Clarke nods along like she understands, but she’s still not getting the whole picture. Why would anyone willingly throw themselves into a ring to get beat on? Why would anyone want to hurt someone else just for fun? Because it certainly looked like Lincoln and Nyko were genuinely having a good time. She’s spent the last ten years getting herself prepped to be a doctor – if there’s anything that’s the antithesis to doctor, it’s this.

“Most of them are like the Commander. They like to fight, either for the work out or the adrenaline rush, and don’t have another place that they can do it at this level. Some of them like the recognition that they can get here. Some of them are like Murphy, the guy back up at the door, who just kind of have a taste for blood and need an outlet that’s a little healthier than the alternatives. There are some people who use it as a source of conflict resolution – like the douchebag seems to want. You go into the ring with some sort of dispute, but you come out with one winner and you put it all behind you.” There’s a long pause before he adds, “There are some of them who are like me who do it for the money.”

“And the crowd?”

“I’ve never been just someone in the crowd, so it’s hard to say, but I guess it’s like any sporting event. You’ve got your favorites and you like to root for them and you like to see rivalries develop. It’s something to do on a Saturday night that’s not homework or drinking. It’s entertainment.”

Clarke purses her lips and looks at Bellamy out of the corner of her eye. “Like gladiator events?”

His head snaps toward her and he stares for a moment before nodding. “Yes, I guess so.”

“And you’re Spartacus?”

The smirk from the other night returns, along with a light flush that sits high on his cheeks, and Clarke actually hears one of the girls behind her swoon. “I’m not about to lead a revolt, but I suppose I’m well known if that’s what you were going for.”

“There you are!” Jasper’s voice rings loud above the crowd as he jostles his way back to Clarke’s side. “Did you see that? That was insane? Miller here was telling me that those guys are best friends. They just do this for kicks. Can you believe that?”

“Miller?” Clarke asks.

Jasper claps Nathan on the back. “Apparently the only thing that this guy talks about in therapy more than Bellamy’s junk is his hatred of his name. Goes by Miller and Miller only, never the first name.”

“Not that big of a deal, really. Everyone’s just called me Miller since I was a kid.” Nathan – Miller – shrugs. 

“And Bellamy – who is probably not a serial killer, or even just a regular murderer, I’ve decided – is going to get in the ring and fight Finn!” Jasper’s excitability is fairly legendary. Anything from video games to reality TV to 19th century poetry to computer coding can get him riled up. It’s one of the things that Clarke loves about him, since she tends toward the opposite end of the spectrum. Jasper balances her in that way.

Bellamy shrugs, like this is an everyday occurrence for him – likely because it is, Clarke realizes, or at least a weekly occurrence as the case may be. “To be fair, he’s the one who found the Commander to set it up. I just show up and fight whoever they want me to fight.”

Jasper waves him off with a valiant flourish. “Sure, sure, when you say it like that, it sounds so mundane, which is a travesty because all you have to do is tweak it a little so that it sounds stupidly heroic. The one, the only, Bellamy Blake is about to partake in a no holds barred, brawl to submission for the hand of one damsel, Clarke Griffin.”

“I’m not fighting for her _hand_.” Bellamy grumbles at the same time as Clarke huffs, “I’m not a damsel.”

“Sure, sure.” Jasper and Miller dismiss them in sync.

Just then, a woman takes to the center of the ring. She looks plain enough – no taller than Clarke with her long brown hair teased back into a pony tail. She’s got a killer smoky eye, Clarke notices, and the crowd silences at her appearance without needing any prompting, so the presence that she commands is more than evident. Other than that, there’s nothing particularly remarkable about her.

“The Commander.” Bellamy supplies helpfully at Clarke’s side.

“Ladies and gentleman.” The Commander doesn’t have a microphone, but her voice seems to echo off the walls of the basement anyway, amplifying in the hush of the crowd. “For the final fight of the night we have a bit of a treat for you. Finn “Spacewalker” Collins has challenged the one, the only, Bellamy “Spartacus” Blake to a grudge match tonight.”

“What's! The! Grudge!” The crowd cheers in unison. Clearly this is a shtick.

“Tonight these men fight for the honorable Clarke.” Though Clarke has never met this ‘Commander’ before, she’s able to pick her out at the edge of the crowd and gestures toward her. Suddenly Clarke feels like she’s under a spotlight – dozens of pairs of eyes are suddenly trained right on her and she fights the urge to fidget restlessly.

There’s a murmur of dissent amongst the females in the crowd – they don’t like her. “It’s not like that.” Clarke says, though the words feel lame as they leave her mouth.

The Commander chuckles in the center of the ring, but otherwise ignores her. “Bets close in three minutes!”

Bellamy ducks under the thin rope and into the blocked off ring, looking calm, cool and collected as he says, “That’s my cue.”

“You’re really going to fight Finn?” Clarke asks again. She’s known this was coming – at least since Miller mentioned the boxing outside, but more realistically since the pub when Finn cryptically brought it to Bellamy’s attention. It still feels strange, like something from a movie rather than her own life.

“Yes.” Bellamy shrugs.

“For her honor?” Jasper chimes in from beside Clarke – ever so helpful.

“Not exactly.” Bellamy reaches behind his head and pulls his t-shirt off in one swift motion. The female population – and probably significant parts of the male population – collectively swoon and sigh. Clarke does her best to steadfastly ignore the new expanse of bared skin, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on Bellamy’s face.

“For the money?” Clarke asks, recalling his earlier statement and hoping that there’s still a way to distance herself from this fight. Two men fighting over her feels incredibly awkward. 

“Not exactly.” Bellamy repeats, tossing his shirt at Miller who now stands on Clarke’s other side.

“Then what?” The question comes from all three of them – Clarke, Miller, Jasper – in slightly different iterations, but mostly at the same time.

Bellamy holds out his hands then, a little helpless shrug rolling through his shoulders, before the corner of his mouth twitches into a grin. “To be fair, he’s just got one of those faces that’s begging to be punches. But it is a perk that I think he’ll be more apt to leave Clarke alone after this. If she’s got a boyfriend who’s proven that he can kick his ass, why would he bother trying to keep coming after her?”

“But-” Clarke starts before remembering the shaky semblance of a ruse they’d created between Feve and the pub. She sighs.

“Kiss for good luck?” Bellamy asks, raising his eyebrows and unleashing the full force of his smirk.

He really must feel in his element in the ring, Clarke thinks, because he’s teasing her. Bellamy leans forward over the thin rope and Clarke can see Finn standing on the opposite side of the ring over his shoulder, scrutinizing them. On the one hand, if she straight up denies Bellamy, it'll likely garner more of Finn's interest. On the other, she's slightly frightened as to what the rest of the women in the crowd might do. On her third, purely metaphorical hand, Clarke still finds herself uneasy in this new environment, and if being attached to Bellamy gives her a leg up here, then she's okay with it, so she gives in and presses her lips to Bellamy’s. The kiss is languid, but deep, and since she's resigned himself to not pushing him away, Clarke tugs sharply at the wayward curls on the back of Bellamy’s neck in an effort to retaliate for putting her on the spot. Unfortunately, the low groan that tears from his mouth at the action makes her think she’s accomplished the exact opposite of ‘retaliation.’

When he pulls back from the kiss, his lips are a little pouty, slightly swollen from the kiss and it’s a good look on him. “This one’s just for you, princess.” He says, and the reverence he puts behind the nickname erases some of the slimy association with Finn.

“Be careful.” Is the only response that Clarke can come up with.

As the two men take to the center of the ring, she can feel her heart start to trip a little faster in her chest. She’s worried that one of them might do something that he’ll regret later. She’s worried that Finn might win and feel some kind of twisted, righteous sense of ownership over her. She’s also worried that Finn might lose and feel the need to get revenge. If she let’s herself think about it - which she’s definitely _not_ going to – she’s worried that Bellamy might get hurt.

But as the Commander gives a start signal from the center of the ring, it no longer matters what Clarke is thinking. The fight is on and, from what she’s gathered, it’s not stopping until one of them submits – or maybe if someone falls unconscious, she supposes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's left the sweetest comments (and all the kudos, subscriptions and favorites)! I've always dabbled in writing as a creative outlet, but this is the first platform in which I've shared anything that I've written publicly, so it really means a lot to me that the response has been so positive!!
> 
> Not gonna lie, the positive response has definitely spurred me to write faster, too!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one day! Because what better way is there to spend a Sunday than violently ignoring S3 Bellamy, avoiding my thesis and drowning myself in this instead?

When Bellamy and Finn fight, there’s none of the friendly rivalry that was evident between Lincoln and Nyko. From the moment the Commander steps out of the ring, Finn is bouncing on his toes, hands up to protect his face. Bellamy, on the other hand, stays on flat feet, hands loose but down at his sides. If someone snapped a picture of him, he might just look like he was standing a street corner rather than in the middle of a brawl.

There’s no circling and assessing each other as with Lincoln and Nyko, either. In a matter of seconds, Finn launches himself at Bellamy, both fists flying in a quick, if sloppy, attack. Bellamy, for his part, looks the picture of calm as he moves more quickly than Clarke can follow to block each of Finn’s strikes. It’s only when Finn loses steam that Bellamy strikes back with a vicious combination to his jaw and then to his stomach, knocking the air from his lungs. Finn staggers backward and Bellamy spins, planting his foot flat on Finn’s chest in a kick that sends him to the ground.

Finn wheezes, clutching at his stomach with one hand as Bellamy paces, allowing Finn a moment to collect himself to the extreme disappointment of the crowd. It takes a minute, but Finn does pull himself back to his feet and the crowd cheers – because the fight is going to continue or because they’re rooting for Finn, Clarke can’t tell.

Their next round of grappling looks a lot like the first. It’s Finn who goes on the offensive, lunging for Bellamy with pure force and no strategy. Bellamy takes each of Finn’s offensive moves as an opening, blocking a few and absorbing others as he takes advantage of the open space to strike back. The crowd goes crazy, the noise spiking so high that Clarke actually winces. 

When he gets Finn back to the ground this time, it’s with a move that Clarke can only think to describe as a tackle. With two hard punches, Finn goes relatively limp, hands dropping from any sort of protective placement. Clarke waits for him to tap out – like Nyko did – or to do _something_ at least, because he’s still conscious, she can see that his eyes are open.

She see’s Bellamy’s lips move as he says something that she has no hope of making out over the cheering of the crowd – they’re calling for Bellamy to ‘finish him.’ Finn must give some sort of response because Bellamy shakes his head, leaning down close to Finn to say one more thing before he spikes his elbow back and slams his fist into Finn’s face one last time. Now, Clarke can see, he’s unconscious.

Bellamy pulls himself off the floor, wiping the blood off of one hand onto his sweats and heading somewhere into the opposite side of the crowd, leaving Finn where he’s lying. “Holy shit!” Jasper whistles, pulling Clarke’s attention away from the ring. “That was insane! What was that?!”

Miller scoffs, but when Clarke turns to him he’s got a twinkle in his eye. “A regular weekend for us.”

“No, no – that was literally the craziest thing I’ve ever seen. He’s a TA! He’s a big nerd! Clarke and I used to say that he was always so grumpy because he was celibate because he only got turned on by Latin and history, not actual human females – or males, no judgment there. But this is really a thing? The secret life of Bellamy Blake?”

“It’s not really a secret.” Miller says. “He’s been doing this for years. Anyone who’s ever heard anything about the league would probably say the exact opposite of you – Bellamy Blake spends his days arguing about his favorite Latin declensions? No way.”

Jasper’s mouth is still hanging open in disbelief. “Why the hell does he do this? Gladiator dysphoria?

“Money.” Clarke answers, recalling Bellamy’s earlier abridged explanation.

Miller nods. “Fighters get a cut of the betting margins if they win. But that’s his story to tell you.”

Clarke turns to Miller. “Do you do this, too? Or are you just, what, the corner man?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes I fight, but for me it’s more just if I’ve had a rough couple of weeks and I need to blow off some steam. I started coming for Bellamy, but uh,” He runs a hand down the back of his neck, a flush rising in his cheeks, “a couple years ago Lexa hired this guy to start keeping the books, making the betting a little more on the up and up. He created this algorithm for odds and profits and now he runs the whole finance side.”

“And now you come for him?” She guesses and Miller nods. His mouth turns up into a private little smile. It’s sweet enough to erase some of the violence of the fight from Clarke’s brain. “Then what are you hanging around here for? Go find him.”

“Get it!” Jasper hoots from behind her. “Sounds like an interesting guy.”

“No way, if I left you here by yourselves Bellamy would be calling _me_ into the ring next week and I’m not interested in going toe to toe with him.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “That’s ridiculous. Jasper and I were perfectly capable of fending for ourselves before Bellamy sort of fell into my life. I have managed to make it a whole two years in college _without_ a babysitter following me around 24/7. Go find your guy and if Bellamy’s going to be an asshat about it then I’ll fight him myself.”

Miller raises an eyebrow and stares at her for a long moment before finally shrugging. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, though.” He tells her before disappearing into the crowd.

“Now what?” Jasper asks, hip bumping her affectionately.

“Not sure.” Clarke shrugs. “I guess we go home, order some late-night pizza and watch some Netflix. We really only came to watch Bellamy kick Finn’s ass, I guess.”

“Which was awesome.” Jasper points out as though she hadn’t noticed. (She might’ve tried not to notice the way the fight made her tingly in places that violence should decidedly not make people tingle, though.)

“Sure.”

Jasper throws an arm around her shoulder and they start to push their way through the crowd back toward the stairs. “At least Finn should leave you alone. I can’t imagine he’s eager for a repeat performance. Plus, I’m thinking if you play your cards right we can finally confirm whether or not your drawing really was spot on to Bellamy’s dick.”

“Jasper!” Clarke squeals, digging into his side with her elbow. “I’m not interested in him. This whole cluster-fuck just started to get Finn off my back and well, guess what? Now Finn’s off my back.”

“You’re telling me you’re never going to see or speak to Bellamy again?”

She shrugs. “If I run into him I’ll say hi, I guess, but I have no need to keep him in my life. And he’s a little bit creepy, so why would I want to?”

“Come on. He literally just fought for your honor. I’m not even into guys and I can objectively admit that it was hot. You’re not even a little bit interested?”

“Nope.”

“You’re lying to me and you’re lying to yourself and frankly I’m disappointed.” He’s using that weirdly deep voice and talking out of the side of his mouth – it’s his “father figure” voice.

Clarke jabs him again, a little bit harder. Maybe the energy of the fight has affected her a little in that way – made her more prone to violence for the night. “If the day ever comes where I feel a need to sleep with Bellamy, I’ll buy you a bottle of that weird Wasabi Vodka you love so much. But I promise you, that day will not come.”

“I accept your bet and I anticipate that you’ll be paying up before Thanksgiving.”

They’re almost to the landing at the bottom of the stairs when they’re stopped by none other than the Commander. “Clarke Griffin.” She says as she scrutinizes the pair, eyes trailing slowly over Jasper’s arm across her shoulders.

“That’s me.” Clarke says, though it sounds more like a question than a statement. What could the Commander want from her?

“Two men just went to blows over you and yet, here you are, walking out of my event with yet another man. Interesting, don’t you think?” She speaks clearly and her voice stays steady, casual. Yet there’s a clear accusation in her words that Clarke doesn’t take kindly to.

Clarke shakes her head. “Jasper’s just a friend.”

The Commander nods slowly. “And the two men in the ring – the one who kissed you like he owned you and the one who outright claimed it to me? Are they also just friends?”

Clarke quirks an eyebrow at her. “I’m not sure how it’s any of your business, but I wouldn’t even call them friends. It was a misunderstanding, that’s all. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” Clarke moves to sidestep the woman in front of her, but she counters it and they’re left standing right in front of each other again.

“You must be a very interesting woman to garner such attention, misunderstanding or not. I like interesting women, Clarke.”

“Good for you, Commander, but I’ve got places to be, so if we could do this some other time, that’d be great.”

The Commander smirks – just a tiny lifting of one side of her mouth. “Does dinner tomorrow sound like a better time? And please, call me Lexa.”

Clarke’s mouth drops open and she can hear Jasper snickering quietly at her side. “Look, Lexa, I’m flattered, but my dance card is a bit full at the moment, so I have to pass.”

“Is it because I’m a woman? Do you not like women, Clarke? I’m not often wrong about these things.”

Clarke shades her head. “No, it’s not that. I’m open to women, you know, in general. But at the moment I’m not open to anyone.”

Lexa nods, and it’s clear that there are gears turning in her head in overdrive. Clarke had been wondering how it was possible for a woman as relatively petite as her to run this apparent underground fighting empire, but Lexa’s demeanor now is making it clear. She commands respect and attention in everything down to her posture. “Perhaps another time, then, Clarke.”

And with that, she melts back into the crowd.

“Could this night get any weirder?” Clarke mumbles, mostly to herself. Jasper just laughs again.

The weasel-y guy at the door is just as grumpy on their way up as he was on the way down. Clarke knows that Bellamy mentioned his name, but she can’t remember – something with an M? “Where are you going?” He asks when they emerge from the door, stance wide enough to block them from being able to actually step back into the kitchen.

“Home?” Jasper says and though he’s behind her and she can’t see it, Clarke knows that he’s narrowing his eyes and giving the weasel-y guy one of those ‘wtf’ looks.

“Without Blake?” This time he’s clearly speaking _only_ to Clarke.

“Jesus Christ, yes, without Bellamy. What the fuck is with you people? I drove here all by myself today – well, with Jasper – and I’ll be leaving all by myself, too. And if you don’t get out of my way in the next ten seconds I’m going to move you myself.”

A lecherous grin works its way across his face. “You better be prepared to finish what you start, then.”

Clarke is officially done with new people for tonight. She’s never exactly been an extrovert, so it’s already been a bit overwhelming, but this is just way more than she has the patience for. Clarke pushes hard against his shoulders, sending him stumbling back just half a step – but it’s enough for she and Jasper to sneak past and book it back outside.

The walk to the car is quick and quiet. Clarke sighs as they get in. “You and me, Jas, just us against the world. Remind me how creepy people are next time I decide to go out somewhere.” 

“And Wells?”

“Yeah, sure, him too.”

“What about Raven?”

Clarke considers it for a moment. She had almost forgotten about her potential new friendship with Finn’s _other_ girlfriend. “Okay and Raven, but that’s it! No other people in my life.”

Jasper nods, but it’s all too clear that he’s not buying what she’s selling.

______________________________________________________________

Bellamy is antsy, pacing as he waits for Monty to finish calculating his cut of the night’s profits. He’s always wired after a fight, a little too much adrenaline coursing through his system, senses in overdrive, paranoia creeping in. This, though, this feels worse than usual.

“Didn’t you create a computer program for this? How is it possible for someone to move so slowly?” Bellamy growls at Monty. It’s not fair and he knows it, but there’s a lack of heat behind his words, he just needs to say something so that he can feel like he’s making progress.

“What’s got your panties in a twist?” Monty asks with idle interest as he purposefully begins to count bills _slower_.

“Bellamy’s in _love_.” Miller coos as he strides through the door. Bellamy has to do a double-take because didn’t they agree that he was supposed to stick with Clarke and her friend until he got back?

He’s reaching out a hand to pin Miller to the wall before he realizes what he’s done. “Miller!” Is all he grits out.

Miller calmly breaks his grip and dusts himself off. “Yeah, yeah, fuck you, too. Clarke’s an adult. She’s perfectly capable of looking after herself.”

Bellamy resumes pacing. He’s going to have to apologize for that, but it’s not happening tonight. “But Finn –“

“Is literally laying unconscious on the floor.”

“Yeah, but –“

“And you made your point, Cujo. I’m sure he’s going to leave her alone now, so mission accomplished, that’s it, right?. You can stop sucking face with Dick Chick every time you have a tenth of an excuse and we can get back to life as normal.”

“Well, yeah, except –“

“Unless you’re done pretending that you’re not actually in love with this girl?”

“I’m not in love with her.” He huffs, all in one breath so that Miller won’t interrupt him again.

Miller’s leaning against Monty’s desk now, the picture of calm, cool and collected. Bellamy knows it’s for Monty’s benefit and not his own. “Tell me what you said before you knocked him out and I might just believe you.”

“Fuck you.” Bellamy seethes, because he’s not ready to admit that one yet.

Miller grins. “Monty, do you remember Dick Chick?” Monty nods briefly as he recounts his stacks – having Miller around always makes him miscount and makes this whole post-fight process take three times as long. “Is Bellamy in love with her?”

“I’m pretty sure she’s the only non-fictional, modern day person I’ve heard him talk about besides you and Octavia. Is that the Bellamy equivalent of love?”

“She kissed him last week. He just beat her cheating ex-boyfriend into a pulp. Classic love story, right? Now we’re at the part where Bellamy is going to pretend he did it all out of duty to female-kind even though he actually did it because he’s still got a thing for her. I, for one, just want to skip the part where he probably winds up stalking her again and get to the part where he goes and proclaims his love for her and he gets laid.”

Monty laughs and Bellamy can’t remember ever hearing that before. “I can’t wait to hear next week’s installment.”

As soon as Monty hands over the stack of cash he all but sprints from the room. He wants to get out of there before he does something stupid out of anger and he needs to go burn off the rest of the adrenaline.


	6. Chapter 6

Bellamy’s got a fight hangover. It’s the adrenaline crash, he thinks. He’s never been too bothered by it to try to figure out the science behind it, just knows that sometimes the morning after a fight he’s sluggish and tired, the world simultaneously too loud and then too quiet as the last dregs of adrenaline work through his system, his limbs too heavy. He feels like that today, wanted nothing more than to roll over in bed when his alarm went off at 7, but he and O promised each other. The compromise when she wanted to move out of the city for college was Sunday brunch at 10 am at the weird little diner on the interstate – Dirty Laundry, as the neon sign out front reads. The food is decent and the coffee is bottomless, but most important is that it’s exactly half way between home and O.

So despite feeling like death warmed over, Bellamy schlepped his way to Dirty Laundry this morning and now sits, all but just face-planting into his bottomless coffee. He had actually asked for a bowl in lieu of the mug, but the waitress didn’t take him as seriously as he meant it. “Looking good, big brother.” Octavia’s voice rings too loudly through the mostly-empty diner, making Bellamy groan. “Don’t even tell me you actually went out and had a life last night. Did you actually go out and _drink_ , Bell?”

He shakes his head jerkily. “Fight.” He mumbles, tipping his head up so that she can see the light bruise blooming along his jaw, the bloodied cut splitting his bottom lip.

Octavia purses her lips, considering carefully before speaking. Finally she yells through the empty dining area, “Maeve, we’re going to need hash browns! Lots of ‘em.”

“Maeve?” Bellamy asks.

“The owner slash head chef.” She says, like he should already know this. There are two things that have stayed consistent about O through the years. First, she loves Bellamy fiercely, above all else, and it’s the kind of bond that goes both ways. Second, she loves her secrets. Growing up with her best friend, brother and parental figure all being the same person meant that private tidbits of information were few and far between. She guards then with her life.

Bellamy doesn’t push, just says. “Of course.”

“Who’d you fight?” She asks then, pouring her own cup of coffee.

“Stupid douchebag challenged me to a grudge match.” Bellamy grumbles. He knows he’s going to have to explain, was looking forward to it almost. He thinks that Octavia will be easier to talk to about Clarke and help him figure out what he’s doing. She’s a particularly appealing option considering the only other one is Miller and he’s already made it clear what he thinks about the situation.

Octavia nods, clucking her tongue briefly as she scrutinizes her brother. “Is this a before greasy food story or an after greasy food story?”

“After.” He says immediately. “Definitely after. You’re up first this week.”

Octavia launches into telling him about her week. She’s liking her classes, though they’re mostly just gen ed requirements for the semester until she starts to decide what sort of a focus she wants. She’s making new friends, even though her roommate, Echo, is turning out to be a bitch. Her RA, Indra, has really taken her under her wing and she’s getting the hang of college life. 

She joined a boxing gym (“No, not because of you, you idiot. Indra goes.”) and is considering getting her certification so that she can start teaching fitness classes at the gym on campus. Bellamy tries to tell her that she doesn’t need to worry about earning any money, he’s got it covered and does she not have enough spending money? Because he can transfer between their accounts.

She waves him off easily, tells him she wants to get involved and it’s an easy way to meet new people. At this point, their food is mostly gone and Bellamy’s almost sick to his stomach with how much grease he’s ingested it in the hash browns alone – forget the fried eggs and bacon. When she finishes telling him about her week she pauses for a minute. She’s timid as she asks then, “Who else was fighting last night?”

Bellamy groans and however much the coffee and food have helped the adrenaline crash headache is erased as he lets his head slam down onto the table and feels it all over again. “No.” He tells her sternly.

“I could just ask him directly, you know.” She says with an air of defiance.

Bellamy glares at her in a way that would’ve made her cower three years ago. It’s the only way he could get her to sit still long enough to do her homework some nights. Now, she just lifts her chin and stares back, waiting patiently. (If there’s one way to give Octavia confidence in something, it’s to tell her that she can’t or shouldn’t do it.) “Yes, Lincoln was there. He was fighting Nyko.”

Octavia squirms slightly in her seat, but her facial expression doesn’t change. She and Lincoln began a budding friendship one night last year. Bellamy had lost a fight (badly) and he wasn’t confident that he’d make it home without passing out on the side of the road. Miller had already gone off to moon over Monty and Lincoln was there, so he offered. When Octavia opened the apartment door, allowing Lincoln to half-drag Bellamy over the threshold, her eyes all but morphed into cartoon hearts.

It’s a friendship that Bellamy has been resolutely against from the start. (And he’s going to call it a friendship because he outright _refuses_ to believe that it’s anything more than that.) He’s done everything that he can to discourage it. Lincoln is 25 after all, and his baby sister is just barely 18. It helps that Lincoln is against it, too – logically, at least. He doesn’t _want_ to want Octavia, knows the age difference is too big, so Bellamy thinks that between the two of them they’ve managed to keep Octavia at bay successfully.

Octavia catalogues this new information with a calculating nod before throwing her napkin down on the table. “Now, tell me about your douchebag.”

Bellamy sighs, because this might actually be physically painful for him, but walks her though the last week of his life where Clarke was concerned. He backtracks to the kiss at Feve last week – this earns him a kick to the shin because he didn’t tell O about it at last week’s brunch. Reluctantly admits to his stalking – another kick – and then tells her about the douchebag’s other girlfriend, Finn’s own stalking and, even more reluctantly, the other kisses he instigated. (Two more kicks, one for each.) He tells her about the fight and Miller’s accusations, how Clarke had disappeared before he’d returned from getting his winnings. He even tells her about Lexa hunting him down on his way out, threatening to steal Clarke away if he doesn’t get his shit together.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Octavia asks when he’s finished.

“What do you mean what am I waiting for?”

“Why haven’t you asked her out yet?”

Bellamy splutters, nearly spitting coffee at his sister. “Why would I do that?”

Octavia blinks at him a couple of times, the way she does when she’s trying to decide if he’s kidding. (He’s not.) She doesn’t kick him this time. Instead, she picks up one of her discarded pancakes and flings it at him like a Frisbee. “You’re an idiot.” She tells him, but it’s all fondness and no heat.

“Yeah, so I’ve heard. Enlighten me, would you?”

“Bell, I remember this girl. You talked about her _all the time_ last semester. Which, okay, I guess you mostly complained about her and I suppose you complain about a lot of your students. But when you hate someone you complain about them like, ‘Sterling is so fucking stupid that he probably fails his own blood tests.’ When you complained about Clarke it was like, ‘Who does she think she is with her stupid pretty hair and her stupid perfect face?’” Octavia does her best Bellamy impersonation, which always makes him sound like a hick.

“She does have pretty hair.” He mumbles, almost without thinking.

Octavia just lifts a brow at him. “Bellamy, you’re so stupid that you probably fail your own blood tests.” She pauses for a moment to chuckle at her own joke before refocusing herself. “I’ll admit it’s a little creepy, but no one goes around stalking some girl out of a sense of duty. And you don’t fight her ex-boyfriend to ‘protect her’ and you don’t con her into making out with you for ‘her own good.’ If you were really worried about the douchebag, you’d go to the police. You protected her because you _wanted_ to, no matter how you went about it.”

“Yeah, but—“ He protests, not even sure what he was about to say.

“You like this girl, Bell. Grow up and do something about it.”

Bellamy whines and it sounds petulant even to his own ears. But he thinks about the way that his mind just sort of quiets when he kisses her. He thinks of how she briefly took his breath away last night in that dress and he thinks about the easy way that her hand fits in his, how he didn’t want to let go once their fingers were threaded. Thinks about how his stomach turns sour at the thought of Lexa wooing her.

And well…

“Shit.” He hisses, letting his head drop to the table one more time for good measure.


	7. Chapter 7

Five days.

That’s how long Clarke gets. It’s one week of blissful normalcy. 

Sunday night movie night goes off almost without a hitch. Raven shows up, as promised and even with booze in tow. They argue about what movie to watch – Jasper and Wells are on team Goonies, as they have been for every single movie night since its inception two years ago, while Clarke and Raven are firmly on team _sweet, baby Jesus, anything but Goonies_ as Clarke has been since the inception of movie night.

Then it’s a normal week of class. It’s that sweet spot in the semester, a few weeks in where it’s far enough that they’re diving deeply into content so that Clarke can get absorbed in her materials, but not far enough into the semester that there are any major assignments due or any stress piling up. She’s prepping to dissect a fetal pig in her Bio class and starting to outline her semester portfolio project in Figure Drawing.

Best of all, she hasn’t had to even think about last week’s cluster-fuck. She doesn’t catch hide nor tail of Finn, doesn’t run into Bellamy or Lexa or even Miller. Now that she’s privy to it, she does catch whispers of the Saturday night fight throughout campus and in her classes, but it’s easy enough to ignore and move on with life as normal. 

But on Friday, her figure drawing class has a studio class, which his innocuous enough. They have the first two hours of class to complete a sketch of the model, and they’ll spend the last hour in small groups doing a critique to help improve technique before the portfolio project gets started.

Clarke’s hands are a little shaky going into class. This is the first time she’s ever taken a figure drawing class and, while they did have a live model for a similar class last week, they were focusing on the upper body – proportions of the head and the face, the right curve of shoulders and the length of the arms and the torso. The male model had simply taken his shirt off and posed in the middle of the circle of easels. It was easy. This week they’re doing a full-body drawing which means that not only will she be staring at another human being for two hours, but this human being will be _naked_.

On the surface, Clarke is part-artist and part-doctor, practically the perfect combination to look at nudity with neutrality. However, she’s an artist and a doctor who is barely beginning her formal schooling. Up until this point, all of the nudity has been _theoretical_ \- plastic dummies and anatomical drawings and diagrams in her pre-med classes, sculptures, paintings and drawings in art. She doesn’t have any siblings and she’s never been caught in any awkward moments with friends. Even when she walked in on her roommate with a guy during freshman year, it was all _under the covers_. Finn (and, well, herself) aside, Clarke has never actually looked at another human being naked. In the flesh. In person.

Nerve-wracking doesn’t seem like quite an accurate description.

When she arrives at the studio, there’s a certain degree of calmness that seeps into her from her routine – set up her easel, pull out her charcoals, steal the best stool from the other side of the room, chat with her neighbor about the weather. It’s easy enough that by the time her professor finishes re-explaining the process for the day, she’s actually forgotten to be nervous anymore.

Then her professor welcomes the model.

And then suddenly, in front of her eyes in fluffy blue bath robe is _Bellamy_.

And then Clarke has to actively grip the edge of her stool with one hand and the base of her easel with the other to keep herself from falling over. Experience with nudity or not, Clarke is sure that the fact that she manages _not_ to scream, giggle, choke or faint makes her the most professional person in the room. Considering…

She hasn’t spoken to him since before he went into the ring to fight Finn – hasn’t seen him since then, actually. And it’s not like she really _cares_ that she hasn’t talked to him. She has no reason to since Finn has also been absent from her life since the fight. He hasn’t even texted her.

So it’s not like she has any issue with Bellamy posing nude for her class. It was going to be _someone_ after all, and apparently she already knows what his dick looks like, so maybe that’s even a positive? It’s just that she kind of has an issue with being forced to share space with him for the next few hours. It just feels awkward.

Bellamy, for his part, doesn’t seem to even notice that Clarke is there. (This also makes her confident that she really did keep any freaking out in her head.) The professor walks through her expectations for final products, how Bellamy will pose and when he will take breaks. All the while, Bellamy casually sets down his things, pulls off his flip flops - _flip flops!_ \- and then begins pulling the tie from his robe.

Clarke has to avert her eyes, then. She can’t watch him just get casually naked and stroll across the room all… _naked_. It feels too strange, too intimate.

It’s only once she hears the scratch of charcoal on paper from the students next to her that she’s sure it’s safe to look up. Bellamy must be in his first pose now, and her professor will be making the rounds in just a few moments, so it’s now or never.

With a deep breath, she peeks over her easel. Tension eases out of her almost instantly when she finds Bellamy facing away from her. He has one hand drawn up, resting against the back of his neck, his head clearly bowed while his other arm is bent in front of him. From this angle, she can easily forget who it is that she’s drawing. She can get lost in the curve of his muscles along his spine, appreciate the way the bulk in his shoulders tapers to a narrowed cut right above the curve of his butt.

For the first two breaks that Bellamy takes, Clarke is able to stay absorbed in her drawing. It’s taken shape now, just needing details and shading. She finds herself lingering at his hair, of all places, noticing that she can’t get the curls just right. She lets out a frustrated huff as it all blends into a bit of a mess.

Clarke feels another body press close to hers where she sits on the stool, but doesn’t think much of it as her professor has been constantly circling the room making comments on each students’ drawing. Then again, the small, considerate hum that comes from behind her is decidedly too deep to have come from her middle-aged female professor. Clarke nearly jumps out of her skin when she turns, finding Bellamy just a few inches from her – mercifully wearing his robe. (Though the tie looks dangerously loose.)

“Relax.” He whispers, grin looking surprisingly smug for a man who’s just spent the last – Clarke checks her watch – hour and a half standing naked in front of a room of strangers who are silently critiquing his form based on proportion and angle, shadow and light.

Clarke clears her throat, bringing her eyes resolutely back to the drawing in front of her. “Sorry, I’m just not clear on what protocol is with something like this.”

“No protocol.” He says and she can nearly feel his shrug behind her. “I don’t usually look at the drawings, actually, but I couldn’t resist seeing what the great Clarke Griffin could do when she actually had the real thing to work with.”

Clarke is probably as surprised as he is when she says, “Well I wasn’t exactly working with the real thing from this angle.” The only thing that stops her from slapping her hand over her mouth is the fact that she’d get charcoal on her teeth and she knows from experience how gross that feels.

“I’m sure there will be other opportunities.” He tells her and part of Clarke thinks that he’s not just talking about figure drawing class. She steadfastly represses that part. “Do I really have those?” Bellamy’s hand pops into view, reaching over her should to gesture at the dimples she seems to have taken care to shade at the base of his spine.

“Uh, yeah, I guess.” If Clarke’s being honest, she can’t picture them in the pose that he took, but she does distinctly recall them taunting her as he walked away from the fight last week. She doesn’t recall purposefully including them in her drawing.

He disappears from behind her, then, and reappears a moment later, nude and back in his pose.

After speaking to him, it’s harder to detach the body in front of her from the man that fell back into her life last week. She can’t forget that the muscles that stretch under his skin create the power that he packs behind a punch. Can’t forget that her fingers have filled the gaps she shades between his fingers now. She’s still grateful for the fact that he’s not facing her, but it doesn’t stop her from recalling the way that she’s kissed his lips.

When the professor calls time and tells Bellamy that he’s finished for the day, Clarke jumps. She’d been taken into tunnel vision, focused only on the subject in front of her. When she refocuses, she’s mostly pleased with her final product. It is, after all, her first full figure drawing and she only had two hours to do it. She never quite got the hair, but she’s particularly proud of her shading of the bunching of his muscles along his spine, and the curve of his fingers over the back of his neck. It’s not her best work, but she’s proud to sign her name to it.

They get five minutes to clean up between the studio time and the critique. Clarke high-tails it to the bathroom, needing to scrub her hands clean, but also hoping that splashing some water on her face will help to scrub the image of Bellamy’s naked ass from her brain.

So he’s a nude model. That doesn’t mean that anything has changed between them. (But it also doesn’t mean that things _can’t_ change if she wants them to, right?)

By the time her hands are as clean as they’re going to get, she’s almost convinced herself that she’s going to walk out of class tonight and go back to life as usual. Her, Jasper, Wells and maybe Raven. No one else.

What she doesn’t count on, however, is Bellamy leaning casually against the wall opposite the bathroom. He’s clearly waiting, but she doesn’t want to presume he’s waiting for her. “Have a good weekend.” She tells him with a wave and brushes past him with what she hopes is an air of casual confidence.

“Wait a second.” He says, reaching out and snagging her wrist. It’s clear that he could use it to leverage her closer, but he just holds her in place. “Did you know that Jasper’s been hanging out with Monty?”

“Who?”

He grins and it’s only slightly disarming. “Monty is, uh, the Commander’s bookkeeper, I guess? He’s the guy Miller’s been hanging out with.”

Clarke nods, recalling their post-fight conversation last week. “Why is Jasper hanging out with him and why are you telling me this?”

“I guess he ran into Miller and Monty earlier in the week and they became fast friends. I’m telling you because Monty is going to invite Jasper to the fight tomorrow night and I assume he’ll be coming. I guess I just wanted you to know that you could come, too?” One of his hands still circles Clarke’s wrist lightly, but he brings the other up to rub at the back of his neck.

“How sweet of you to tell me I’m allowed to come to a public event.” Clarke deadpans because it feels easier to be annoyed at Bellamy than to acknowledge the heat that tingles up her arm from where their skin connects.

“It’s a little less than public. Everyone might know about it, but Murphy won’t let just anyone walk through the door.”

Clarke huffs, unsure why she feels compelled to say, “Oh, I’m willing to bet Lexa would be happy to get me in if I wanted.” She hasn’t thought of Lexa since their stilted encounter last week, hasn’t really wanted to.

Bellamy blanches briefly before shaking his head minutely. “Maybe. I guess it’s a good thing you don’t have to worry about it since I’ve already got your back.” Clarke shrugs and he presses onward. “I’m fighting Lincoln, just in case you’re interested.”

Another shrug.

“Have a good night, princess.” He grins again before pulling his hand away, fingers rubbing gently along the underside of her wrist, sending a brief shiver up her spine.

Clarke is a few minutes late to the critique. Her professor is clearly displeased, but Clarke finds that she doesn’t regret being stopped by Bellamy, even if it will dock her two points on today’s assignment. (She’s definitely not analyzing that right now.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure: I am the exact opposite of an artist. All artsy commentary is totally made up or based off the tiny bit I learned about art from my one of my college roommates who was a Studio Art major.
> 
> Thanks again for all the lovely kindness left in the comments!! It definitely makes my day when something new pops up in my inbox<3


	8. Chapter 8

“I’m finally going to do it tonight.” Miller proclaims as they descend into the crowd for this week’s fight night. 

“Finally going to throw out that stupid beanie?” Bellamy asks, plucking the hat in question off his friend’s head. Miller glares, but can’t respond as the crowd roars to life. (Murphy’s fighting tonight for the first time in a month, which means that everyone is vicariously hungry for blood. Even Bellamy is a little worried about Atom.)

“No, you idiot.” Miller grumbles as they reach a deserted corner a few people away from the rope that sections off the ring. He snatches the beanie from Bellamy’s hands and settles it back over his head, looking decidedly sullen. “I’m finally going to ask Monty on a date.”

Bellamy quirks an eyebrow and turns to stare at his friend. “You’re not already dating Monty?”

Miller shakes his head.

“You’ve just been pining after him for _two years_?!” Bellamy throws his hands up in exasperation. “And he’s been pining after you for _two years_? And neither of you have done anything about it?”

“It’s not exactly like that.” Miller shrugs. “It took a couple of months before we spoke to each other, you know, and then I had to feel him out. I wasn’t sure if he was into guys and I didn’t want to just throw myself at him and hope for the best.”

“Two years.” Bellamy repeats. “I’m not claiming to be the relationship guru, but even I know that pining for two years is insane.”

“I wasn’t pining! I was waiting for the perfect moment and then, you know, two years passed and it seemed like I waited too long and I couldn’t do it anymore.”

Bellamy shakes his head, taking pity on his friend. Miller hasn’t so much as _looked_ at another guy since Lexa showed up at a fight night two years ago with Monty in tow. He really thought they’d been dating for months – just keeping it private. Monty hangs out with them frequently, goes to the bar, comes over for video games and movie nights. He and Miller are constantly touching each other, always pressed against each other on the couch or brushing hands as they pass drinks. He just assumed that they were keeping any more significant affection behind closed doors. It’s not like either of them are open books and he’d even been grateful when he thought they weren’t one of those couples who were grossly affectionate in public. It had made him feel like less of a third wheel. 

Bellamy swallows most of the words threatening to come out of his mouth and instead just says, “I’m proud of you for making a move, man. There’s no way he’s going to say no.”

Miller kicks at his foot and gives him a significant look. “What about you?”

“Well I’m flattered, Miller, but I’m not sure that Monty would be okay with sharing you. Besides, I’ve never been attracted to guys.”

Miller groans, all long-suffering and frustrated. “You’re such a dick.”

“Maybe you should try being slightly less vague.”

“Monty talked to Jasper this afternoon – he’s definitely coming, bringing a few friends with him, too. What are you going to do about Clarke?”

Now it’s Bellamy’s turn to sigh. He brings a hand up to scrub through his already messy hair. Nude modeling for art classes is one of the odd jobs that he picked up a few years ago when he realized that it was important not only to make enough money for he and O to get by, but to make enough to set some aside for Octavia’s college fund. (At various points, in addition to the constant “job” of fighting, he’s also worked as a barista, an overnight security officer at the museum, a house painter, construction worker, TA, and in one particularly bad month in the early years, he even donated sperm.)

The good thing about the modeling gigs is that he gets to pick and choose when he wants to do it. Once you’re signed up and approved, it’s just first come, first serve. Going to Clarke’s figure drawing class yesterday was an impulse decision. He’d been thinking about her all week – since the enlightening brunch with Octavia on Sunday – but hadn’t figured out how to make an excuse to see her again. It was Wednesday when he saw the still-unfilled position, right after his professor had just announced that he was cancelling their Friday afternoon class because of a last-minute out of town trip and knew it was her class since he might have followed her to it last week. It seemed like kismet.

(It was only once he was actually standing there in front of her, naked, that he realized he might not have thought it through. Not a conducive environment to making a movie.)

“I asked her if she would come and she just made a crack about Lexa. I’m pretty sure she’s not interested.”

Miller claps him on the back. “You did just pop into her life and take all your clothes off. She was probably just surprised. Dick Chick doesn’t strike me as the type to cave easy. You’ve already got her feathers ruffled, Blake. If you’re actually serious about her, you’re going to have to put in more effort than a week of stalking, beating up her ex-boyfriend and showing up naked in one of her classes. That’s not a recipe for success.”

Bellamy snorts. “Says the guy who just pined over someone for two years. Someone who has clearly been in love with him the whole time. If I follow the Nathan Miller recipe for success, I won’t be asking her on a date until we’re 40 with the way she’s clearly _not_ taken with me right now.”

The smirk that tugs at Miller’s lips is wry, but he’s clearly not offended. “She might not be taken with you, but I don’t think you’re as bad off as you’re thinking. I get the feeling that fighting is more like foreplay for Clarke. I’m sure it’ll still happen by accident, because it’s you, but just try not to be an ass _on purpose._ ”

Bellamy’s got a great response on the tip of his tongue, but it quickly flees from his mind the moment that he sees _his sister_ standing at the edge of the ring, not too far away, practically _plastered_ to Lincoln. Her back is pressed right against his chest, both of his arms caged around her middle, clasping in front of her stomach.

It’s about the least _friendly_ embrace he can think of.

“Gotta go. Good luck with Monty.” He waves Miller off absently and starts stalking his way across the room.

“Octavia!” He bellows when he gets close enough for her to hear. She calmly turns her head in his direction, doesn’t even have the nerve to jump in surprise. It just makes him angrier. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

She smiles when he finally winds his way between her and the rope. “Hi Bell. I thought you’d be happy that I came to surprise you.”

His eyes drift above her head to Lincoln’s blank face and back down as he raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, it really looks like you came to surprise _me._ ”

Octavia shrugs and leans back further into Lincoln who does nothing to loosen the inappropriate hold he has on her. “Lincoln’s my friend, Bell.”

“Friend.” Bellamy scoffs. He knows this conversation has been a long-time coming. He’s done a great job of pretending that there was nothing happening between these two, but if he lets himself think about it – which he resolutely does _not_ \- he’d recognize that Octavia’s been 18 for over six months and their “friendship” was probably left in the dust on a similar time frame.

“He might be a friend that I also like to make out with, but that doesn’t mean I can’t call him a friend, too.” And there’s an image he’s never wanted in his head. His gut rolls at the thought, mentally calculating backwards – when Lincoln was Octavia’s age, she was only 11. Surely the world would have agreed with him, then. Why does it get to change now?

“She’s not a child anymore, Bellamy.” Lincoln chimes in.

But she is a child to him. Octavia is forever 12 years old in his head, standing at the foot of his mother’s hospital bed as the flat line made his ears ring. Her big eyes turned on him, questioning, scared, needy and sad because _he_ was it for her now, the only person that she had to be there for her.

“You set this up.” Bellamy accuses and he’s not entirely sure which of them he’s accusing at this point. “You were going to storm into town, throw this in my face and then I’m supposed to go in the ring with him and walk out at the end and put this behind me.”

Now Octavia has the nerve to look a little bit guilty, wincing slightly. “Not exactly. We’ve been meaning to tell you. I don’t like keeping secrets like this from you, Bell, and Lincoln doesn’t either. It was his idea. He told me about the fight earlier in the week and suggested that maybe this was the time to pull off the band-aid.”

“It was inevitable that you’d hit me. It just made sense to let you do it before all that anger built up. Seemed easier for both of us.” Lincoln admits.

Bellamy takes a moment to absorb his sister’s easy smile, the relaxed set of her shoulders in contrast to how nervous and scared she’s always been at fights. He’s only let her come twice. The second time she actually cried with her nervousness at seeing him get hit again. If Lincoln is the reason for her change in demeanor…he can’t be all bad.

Hitting Lincoln _will_ still feel good. 

(Part of him also thinks about how Lincoln is one of the only fighters left who has odds up on Bellamy which means that when his sister’s new boyfriend let’s Bellamy take this fight as an excuse to go off on him – because he will, Bellamy knows this – he’s going to get good money out of it.)

“I don’t like this.” He grumbles, but a lot of the anger has seeped from his voice.

“Didn’t expect you to, big bro.” Octavia breaks out into a full grin and brings one hand up to fondly pat his cheek. “The good news is that it’s not your decision, so you don’t have to like it. You just have to deal with it.”

It’s just a few minutes later that he and Lincoln step into the ring. Bellamy tucks his t-shirt into the back pocket of his jeans. (Being shirtless isn’t exactly a rule for fights, per se. It’s more that half the crowd comes to these things to see the men and if there were no crowd, Bellamy would get no money. Besides, last time he fought with a shirt on the collar got all ripped and he had to throw it out. Why bother?)

As he scans the crowd, he spots Clarke step up to the rope just a few feet to his side. His heart drops into his stomach. She’s _here_. That has to be a good thing, right? Maybe he does have a shot with her.

Then he notices the girl next to her – the ex-boyfriend’s other ex-girlfriend. She’s saying something excitedly and he tries hard to focus in on it, hopes it’s flattering to him because he’ll take all the help he can get. It’s hard to hear, but he definitely makes out “He’s the one with the fingers!”

And then his stomach drops again. Because, _shit_ , that’s where he recognizes her from. He slept with her during that first week of blissful freedom after O left.

Bellamy has to actively stop himself from smacking himself in the face, because there goes that. After the douchebag debacle, he’s sure the last thing that Clarke wants is another guy that this girl – he still can’t remember her name – has had first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bum bum bum!
> 
> It's all coming together now. I'm figuring another 3-4 chapters on this one plus an epilogue. Thanks for sticking with me so far! :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, this chapter was way harder to write than the others have been, but it's here!
> 
> (It's also un-edited again because it kind of felt like: post it or dither about it in editing for the next week.)

“He’s the one with the fingers!” Raven squeals in Clarke’s ear, hands waving wildly toward Bellamy in the ring.

And, oh man, has Clarke heard about “the guy with the fingers.” The guy who Raven had revenge/break-up sex with after the Finn debacle. The guy who made her come so hard - _with nothing but his fingers_ \- that she actually strained a muscle. And then he _topped it_ four more times as the night went on.

“ _Bellamy_?!” She splutters, eyes going wide, trying to make the connection between Bellamy and Raven’s previously-mysterious sex god.

“Oh, was that his name?” Raven muses. “I mostly just called him ‘oh, God.’” The smirk on her face is downright lecherous. “This fighting thing is kind of hot. Think he’d be up for a repeat performance after this?”

Clarke chokes on air then, stomach rolling out of nowhere at the thought of Bellamy taking Raven to bed tonight. She’s suddenly grateful that Lexa is in the ring, signaling the start of the fight, because she doesn’t know how to respond to Raven. ( ~~Actually, maybe she’s scared of what she might say if she _does_ respond to Raven?~~ ) 

Clarke finds her heart speeding up as the fight starts. She watches with rapt attention, but doesn’t seem to actually absorb anything. She has no idea who’s winning, who’s losing – in fact, she only knows that Bellamy is fighting Lincoln because he _told her_ yesterday. Yesterday. After her Figure Drawing class. Where she stared at his naked body for two hours.

Shit.

The thing is, she has no idea what’s happening in the fight because she finds herself just watching _Bellamy._ It’s not - this shouldn’t be A Thing. She literally stared at his naked body for two hours yesterday, completely unaffected by it. Bellamy Blake is, objectively, hot. He’s got the abs and the broad shoulders, the floppy curly hair and the adorable freckles. He’s got that deep voice that sort of vibrates through Clarke’s bones.

But she _knows_ all of these things. Has known them – most of them since last semester, but to be fair she hadn’t seen him with his shirt off until last week’s fight. Even still, he’s not the only guy with lickable abs that she’s ever seen. This is…she _doesn’t_ like Bellamy. He’s annoying and combative and kind of creepy – he stalked her for fuck’s sake.

But “objectively hot” doesn’t quite explain why she can’t tear her eyes away from the dip of his spine, even to focus on what Raven is shouting next to her. 

Shit.

The fight’s over all too quickly and Clarke only registers it because the smooth expanse of Bellamy’s chest is once again covered by the plain black t-shirt he’s pulled out of his back pocket. She has no idea who’s technically won, but both men are still standing when it’s over.

“Bellamy!” Clarke hears Raven call through the rush of her blood in her ears.

“Hey, you.” Bellamy greets Raven when he comes over. And dammit if Clarke’s not a little jealous at the fondness. “Clarke.” He greets her in turn and it feels unfairly perfunctory in contrast.

“What are you doing later?” Raven asks, voice low and sultry as she brings a finger up to trail along the collar of his V-neck. Clarke feels heat rise in her neck at the sight. It’s just because this is awkward, she reassures herself, that it’s because she probably shouldn’t be standing right here for this. It has nothing to do with the feelings that she apparently has about Raven and Bellamy in bed.

Bellamy clears his throat then and stutters a bit as he says, “Oh, um, huh, well, my sister is in town for the night actually.”

Raven pouts. “Rain check?”

He runs a hand up the back of his neck. “I guess.”

Raven grins at him then, finally taking her hand off of his chest. “Do you know where Jasper and Monty went? We told them we’d find them after your fight.”

“Yeah there’s an office retro-fitted from a pantry. It’s behind you along the back wall.” Bellamy points and Raven turns, heading off. He turns to Clarke, eyes soft and asks, “You coming?”

“Sure, Jasper already made me promise that I wouldn’t sneak off without at least saying goodbye.”

“Ah, so you must’ve been roped into coming, then. Good to know.” Bellamy smirks and dammit if Clarke’s knees don’t get a little wobbly. He reaches out then and snags her hand, lacing their fingers together. “Wouldn’t want you trying to go back on your word or getting lost in the crowd.”

Clarke should probably tell him that he’s being ridiculous, pull her hand back and smack him instead. Then again, he’s here holding her hand instead of chasing after Raven to give her more mind-blowing orgasms and she doesn’t really want to let go. So she just scoffs and lets him tug her through the crowd.

There’s a thin plank door fitted into the cinderblock wall that leads to a small, crowded office. Inside, Miller is sitting on top of a rickety desk making googly eyes at who Clarke can only assume is Monty as he brushes the back of his hand with his knuckles. Raven is talking to Jasper on one wall while Lincoln – looking decidedly worse for the wear – is talking to a pretty brunette on the other side of the room.

“Dick Chick!” Miller greets in his now apparently (unfortunately) favorite way.

The greeting does a good job of getting everyone to focus their attention on Clarke, but no one looks quite as spooked as the pretty brunette. “No way!” She shouts, eyes ping-ponging between Bellamy’s face, Clarke’s face and their still-intertwined hands.

Clarke drags her hand out of Bellamy’s then, self-consciousness and confusion renewed in front of the new group of people. It doesn’t seem to matter as the brunette nearly dive-bombs her and wraps her in a hug. Clarke feels, stiff and awkward in the embrace, reluctantly bringing a hand to pat her back.

“Um, nice to meet you?” She offers as she tries to worm her way out of the stranglehold.

“This is my sister, Octavia. Octavia, this is my…Clarke.”

“Wonderful, then, Bellamy’s Clarke. Come with me. We have much to talk about.” Octavia links her arm in Clarke’s and starts to tug her back through the door.

“Wait!” Clarke grabs onto the door frame with one hand, trying to stop their momentum. For a tiny person, Octavia sure has a lot of strength. “I don’t know you and I don’t like new people.”

Octavia just beams at her. “Me too! I hate new people. See, we already have that in common. We’re going to be fast friends.”

“No, I just-” Clarke huffs and looks over her shoulder. No one in the room seems surprised by this turn of events. At least Bellamy has the decency to look slightly ashamed of his sister – two fingers pinching at the bridge of his nose with his mouth set in a firm grimace.

Clarke would like to say that she’s less nervous about being dragged somewhere with Octavia than she was when, say, Bellamy was stalking her. On the surface, she looks like a sweet girl, but the firmer that she continues to tug as she drags Clarke all the way through the basement, the more she worries at how alarmingly successful Octavia would be if she chose to murder her today.

(There’s this tiny part of her brain that registers that Bellamy went through all the trouble of making sure she was safe from Finn, so he wouldn’t let his sister murder her after that. It makes her feel a little safer.)

Finally, Octavia drags her all the way out to the street and plants herself on the curb, using the leverage of their still-linked arms to tug Clarke down with her. It’s quieter out here than it was even in the back room in the basement, just a faint thudding of the bass from the party inside, the occasional hollering from party-goers. The early September night air is getting a little cooler, but it’s refreshing more so than uncomfortable.

“So you’re Clarke Griffin.” Octavia opens with, seemingly much calmer out here than she was during their initial greeting.

“And you’re Octavia Blake.” Clarke recalls hearing about Octavia during some of Bellamy’s lectures last semester. He very clearly loves her, but she remembers as certain fondness in his voice as he called her crazy or annoying. It’s the type of relationship that she imagines she would have liked to have had with a sibling.

“Clarke, do you like my brother?” She asks, voice light but face serious.

And Clarke sort of splutters a bit because, well, twenty-four hours ago her answer would have been an easy “no.” Now, she admits, “I don’t know.” She thinks about how little she still knows about him – the list hasn’t grown much since the night in the pub last week. She knows he fights now, knows _why_ he fights, knows that she’s certainly attracted to him now. But in reality, she knows more about _Miller_ than she does about him.

“He’s kind of weird.” Clarke says after a few moments of silence.

Octavia laughs, loud and bright and Clarke’s relieved at the sound, retroactively worried that she could’ve offended the freakishly strong, tiny woman. “He’s extremely weird. He’s a giant nerd with no concept of social skills or boundaries.”

Clarke nods because, yeah, that sounds about right.

But then Octavia grows serious again. “But he’s a good man. A really good man.”

Clarke nods again, because what else is she supposed to do?

“My brother likes you, Clarke. He’s a big sap who just walked into Monty’s office _holding your hand._ ” Clarke opens her mouth to protest, to tell her about getting lost in the crowd and her promise to Jasper, but Octavia holds up a hand to cut her off. “I’m confident that he came up with a ridiculously lame excuse to do it, just like I’m sure he’s had a ridiculously lame excuse for everything he’s done where you’re concerned because in addition to being extremely weird, he’s also a fucking idiot.”

“Sounds about right.” Clarke chuckled, briefly flashing back through all of the excuses that had been made in the name of affection.

“I just,” Octavia huffs, “you need to know what’s happening and apparently no one else feels the need to tell you. Here’s the thing: Bell will make any excuse he can to be around you, to hold your hand, to kiss you – he’s really affectionate, but don’t tell him that I told you or he’ll kill me. He’s just probably never going to actually make a move to try and _be_ with you because he’s got all kinds of complexes about actually letting people into his life.”

Octavia smiles, but this time it’s sad and maybe self-pitying. Clarke wants to know the story behind the smile, but she won’t dare ask. “He’s just going to torture himself if you let him, so I’m asking you to be gentle here. Either cut him off so that he can pick himself up and move on, or have a little pity on him and let him know you’re actually interested so that you can fall in love already.”

They sit in silence for a minute as Clarke thinks. She doesn’t know Bellamy enough to even know if she likes him – wants to be with him long-term. And she _just_ got out of the horrific Finn relationship. If these are the two options that Octavia is presenting her with, then it’s clear that she just needs to cut and run. Maybe that’d be better for both of them – do right by Bellamy now, and eliminate any potential for Clarke getting hurt, herself, again in the future.

She really doesn’t like that idea, though.

But, Jesus, then there’s Raven. Raven who Bellamy apparently has pet names for. Raven, who Bellamy just took a rain check for sex with.

Clarke runs her hands along her shins, trying to generate a little extra warmth. Since she doesn’t feel like she can give Octavia an adequate answer to the question she hasn’t quite asked, she asks, “Do you always meddle in your brother’s life this much?”

There’s that laugh again. “Actually, no, never. But Bell, he raised me, so he’s pretty much had his nose in every aspect of my life from grades to tampon brands to boyfriends to college applications. He’s had _years_ to meddle in my business, so I feel like I owe him one in return at the very least.”

Clarke blows out a shallow breath, questions her sanity for a minute before deciding: _fuck it_. “Your brother slept with my friend in there. Apparently, he intends to do it again at his next earliest convenience.”

Octavia makes a gagging sound that seems to be a knee-jerk reaction. “That new girl? Look, I don’t know anything about her, which means, sure, I have no idea what Bellamy is or is not doing with her at any point in the near future. But, for what it’s worth, I know my brother and I know that he _has_ talked to me about you and he _hasn’t_ talked to me about her. I’m not entirely sure what you heard or saw, but it’s probably not what you think it was.”

“Maybe.” Clarke muses, lips twisting into a pout.

She can feel Octavia scrutinizing her from her side for a moment before she finally says, “Oh God, you’re an idiot, too, aren’t you?” Clarke tries to be offended by that – because she feels like one should, on principle, be offended at being called an idiot – but it sounds so fond that she can’t find it in her. 

“You’ll be perfect for each other.” Octavia says then, mostly to herself, before reaching out to pat Clarke’s knee.

And then she’s gone and Clarke is left sitting on the curb outside this frat house, wondering what she’s supposed to do after this conversation.


	10. Chapter 10

It’s another two weeks before Clarke regrets her newfound friendship with Raven for the first time. Clarke’s in the middle of a solid work streak on her Medical Ethics paper on physician-assisted suicide, deeply concentrated to the point where her headphones have fallen out of her ears and she’s not pausing to pull them back. She’s been sequestered in one of the private study rooms in the library since lunch and hasn’t been bothered since.

Until Raven.

Raven bursts through the door with such insanely unnecessary force that the door ricochets back off the wall and nearly smacks her in the face. “Jesus Clarke!” She shouts, voice pulling Clarke out of her concentrated streak. And just like that, every solid thought that she had for her paper flees from her head.

(That’s the moment where she regrets befriending Raven. Even if Jasper or Wells would still interrupt her, they would knock first so that she could finish getting her thoughts on the page before they barged in.)

Clarke sighs and nudges her laptop to the side so that she can let her head fall to the table in defeat without altering her paper. “How did you even find me?” She groans, voice sounding whiny to her own ears.

“Not important.” Raven waves her hand in the air and sits down at the chair across from Clarke. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Clarke raises an eyebrow. “Why didn’t I tell you where I was? Why would I tell you where I am at all times of the day? I went to the bathroom a couple hours ago, should I have informed you of that, too?”

“Don’t be saucy.” Raven tells her, clearly irritated. “Why didn’t you tell me about Bellamy?”

“Did I time travel by accident or something? I did tell you about Bellamy. I brought you to Bellamy’s fight two weeks ago, remember? The guy with the fingers.”

“Not that!” Raven nearly shouts. It’s loud enough that one of the people in the study room next door slams a head on the wall in warning.

Clarke shushes Raven and rolls her eyes. “Well then why don’t you just explain, Raven? The sooner we can finish this the sooner I can get back to my paper and I’m not fond of this guessing game.”

“Bellamy and the mystery girl.”

“Explanations usually involve more words than that, Raven.”

Raven sighs, all long-suffering and ridiculously dramatic before slamming both hands on the table. “Ever since the fight I’ve been making a point to hang out with Jasper and Monty and Miller when I know that Bellamy’s around – like poker night last week and the bar last night. I’ve been _trying_ to cash in my rain check for a round two – well, round four, or maybe round five – with Bellamy. I thought he was interested considering he’s unattached and he was up for the first round, so I’ve just been sort of shamelessly throwing myself at him.”

Clarke snorts because, yeah, she saw that coming.

“I thought he was just oblivious because he didn’t do anything about it on poker night. So then last night I literally threw myself at him. I’m talking actually throwing my face at his face. Imagine my surprise and near-deadly mortification when he stops me and just holds me an arm’s length away from him and tells me that he _can’t_.” She scoffs. “Three weeks ago he dragged me back into bed, but now he _can’t_.”

(If Clarke’s heart jumps into her throat at the thought of Bellamy rejecting Raven, no one has to know.)

She takes a second to compose herself and then, when she’s sure that Raven is waiting for some kind of reaction, she asks, “What do you mean he said he can’t?”

Raven scoffs and shakes her head. “Oh, that’s the best part! He’s hung up on another girl. Can you believe that? We _just_ got Finn-ed and now the guy who fucked me within an inch of my life just three weeks ago tells me that he’s _hung up another girl_!”

Clarke swallows around the lump forming in her heart, heart racing to the point of making her extremities tingle. The pen she was playing with actually drops to the table. She remembers her conversation with Octavia the night of Bellamy’s fight against Lincoln. She’s hardly seen Bellamy since that night – just in passing on the quad where they’ll exchange quick hellos or a wave – but each day that she goes _without_ spending any time with him, the conversation comes closer and closer to the forefront of her mind.

She finds herself simultaneously more sure that Octavia is out of her mind – how could Bellamy go two weeks without trying to make some excuse to see her if she were really right about how he felt – and more hopeful that maybe she is right. Without Bellamy around being actively creepy or annoying, she finds herself thinking wistfully of the things about him that she _does_ like: he’s protective and kind, attractive, his hand fits perfectly in hers, his grin makes her go weak in the knees, he’s nerdy in the best possible way, stubborn in a way that she finds closer to adorable than frustrating and he’s – like Octavia said -- he’s a good man.

She couldn’t tell Octavia for sure that she liked him two weeks ago, but now…now she _misses_ him.

“Are we…mad about this?” Clarke asks Raven, trying to hope that the far-off tone of her voice comes across as confusion rather than nerves. _Who is Bellamy hung up on?_

“Yes, Clarke, we’re pissed! We’re pissed because Bellamy Blake has feelings for another girl and he’s _up front about it_. We are pissed because between the fingers, the sexy fighting, the voice and the _honesty_. Bellamy Blake is the perfect post-Finn guy – he’d never lie or two-time if he were with someone if he’s not willing to fuck me now that he just _likes_ a girl – and we’re pissed because someone else has already snatched his heart.” Raven slumps back into her chair with a sigh.

And, well, shit. Clarke was pretty sure that she liked Bellamy two minutes ago. But, Jesus, when Raven puts it like that…

She’s gathering her things before she even realizes what she’s doing. “I have to go.” She tells Raven when her bag is already slung over her shoulder.

“What? Where are you going?” Raven asks, clearly flustered by this turn of events.

Clarke can actually feel the heat from the rising blush in her cheeks. “I have to go find someone.” And she rushes out the door, already pulling her phone out of her pocket.

______________________________________________________________

Bellamy is working a shift in the library archives. He’s part of a team that’s work on digitizing some of the older un-bound reference works. Mostly, it involves standing in front of a copier for four hours scanning pages and then sitting in front of a computer for four hours organizing files in the system. (Bellamy hates computers. And copies, actually. It’s a terrible job for him.)

When people ask about the job, he tells them that he’s “part of a team,” but what that really means is there are multiple people doing this job. In reality, he spends his shifts solo in one of the back offices of the library where the lights are so brightly fluorescent that he’s tempted to wear sunglasses. Mostly, he works in the dark when he can to avoid it.

So when he’s working on organizing a paper from the early 1900’s on “modern” medical instruments, the last thing that he expects is for someone else to burst through the door. He’s so surprised that he jumps and possibly screams a little bit, nearly throwing the brittle pages in his lap around the room in the process. He swears under his breath.

“Bellamy!” The tornado speaks and it’s _Clarke_.

He clears his throat, hoping that he didn’t really screech quite as loudly as he imagines he might’ve. “What are you doing here?”

She looks around the room like she’s not even sure how she got there herself. “I, um, Miller said you were working today and I was upstairs.”

Bellamy scoffs and manages to suppress a laugh bubbling in his throat, but it’s a near-thing. “Since when do you talk to Miller?”

“Mostly since Miller’s become officially attached to Monty and Monty became unofficially attached to Jasper and, well, Jasper’s mine.” She casts her eyes to the side and they become unfocused, like she’s thinking hard about something. “I think that sentence made sense.”

“Kind of, but I’m still not sure why you’re here.” Not that he’s complaining.

“I needed to ask you something.”

He raises his brows and cocks his head to the side, interested. “Please share. I have to know what was important enough to talk to Miller to find out where you could find me today.”

“It’s my figure drawing class. I have to do this portfolio assignment for the semester and since I’m a major student my professor is pushing me to go beyond the –” A small smile appears on her lips and she waves her hand, a bit embarrassed, as if erasing the words she’s just spoken. It’s a great look on her face. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I was hoping that you’d model for me.”

And if he tries to raise his brows any higher they’d blend into his hairline.

It takes him a minute to formulate some semblance of a response and his lengthy response time seems to get to Clarke as she’s currently shuffling on her feet. But how is he supposed to take that? He hasn’t seen her in weeks, not really. A few months ago, he’d have said that he was pretty good at getting women, but either he’s been lying to himself or it just doesn’t apply when he might actually really like the girl. He just didn’t want to scare her off. (After all, his best laid plans up until this point have included “show up to your class and get naked” and “hold my hand so you don’t get lost in the crowd.)

But this? _Clarke_ coming to _him_? How does he pass that up?

“Okay.” He says, eventually, with what he hopes is an easy shrug.

“But I’ll –“ She starts, tone argumentative, before cutting herself off and looking at him skeptically. “Wait, what? Okay? You’ll do it?”

“Sure, it’s the least I can do.”

“Least you can…?” Clarke shakes her head, brows pinching down and lips forming a tiny O. “In return for what?”

Bellamy smirks, remembering fondly. “Giving me an excuse to beat the shit out of the two-timing, creepy-ass douchebag.”

Clarke sighs, exasperated, and that’s a great look on her, too. “But, Bellamy, I’m asking you to model for my whole portfolio. It’s going to be _hours_ of posing and sitting and standing and being crouched in weird positions.” 

He snorts, can’t help but grin. _Hours_ of time with Clarke as a captive audience, an excuse to spend _hours_ trying to convince her that he’s really not that creepy or, you know, violent since the largest stretches of time she’s spent with him have been at fights. “You’re doing a great job of making this favor sound appealing, princess.” He teases, because he can.

She drops her foot to the ground in an almost-stomp. “I’m not trying to make it sound unappealing, I just want to make sure that you know what you’re getting in for.”

“Maybe you could do something to make it worth my while.” And as soon as the words are out of his mouth he wants to grab them back. She’s turned white as well. “That came out way creepier than I meant it. I just meant, maybe you could cook for me when I come over to pose?” Nice job, Blake, way to work on the make-yourself-less-creepy phase of your plan.

Clarke grins, then. “Trust me, you don’t want to eat my cooking.”

“Maybe you could order a pizza when I come over to pose.” He corrects.

She considers for a moment before nodding decisively. “Okay, sure. I can do that. Great, thanks. So, can I get your number?”

He’s half-skeptical, half-ecstatic for a moment before it registers that they’ll need to communicate about timing and location for these sessions. He nods and they exchange phones briefly. After they trade back, Clarke shuffles awkwardly in the doorway for a moment.

“So I’ll, um, text you – or call you? – about setting up a time. Maybe sometime this weekend, if you’re free? I want to start with something that’s easiest for you. Eventually I’ll need to do strong emotions and the way that your face changes through them, but that’s going to be harder for you to convey. It might be easiest to just do some – anyway, thanks again. I’m just going to…” She points out the door and then wiggles through the narrow gap she’s created, holding her foot between the door and the jamb.

Bellamy might fist pump once she’s gone, but there’s no one around to criticize.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might've lied about the number of chapters that are left in this story, as I think about it. We might be looking at wayyyyyy more? Sorry, not sorry. :)


	11. Chapter 11

It’s only a few days later – Sunday afternoon – when Clarke texts Bellamy to see if he’s available to come for the first of many modeling sessions. She was surprised to find that she didn’t immediately regret asking the favor of him. Instead she was excited at the prospect. It was guaranteed time to spend with Bellamy. Time that would likely require some chatting to break the silence, time that would allow her to stare freely at all parts of his body.

Best of all it was time where she _couldn’t_ touch him, and vice versa.

It’s hardly been a month since Finn and while she wasn’t exactly in love with him when she caught him cheating – or, not cheating as the case may be – with Raven, the relationship definitely left a mark. Clarke is adamant about not jumping into another relationship based on attraction or convenience. (Not that she’s thinking that she’s starting any type of relationship with Bellamy, exactly.)

She’s nervous, though, pacing a circular trail in the carpet around her living room table. Every few laps she goes back and smoothes the trail with her foot so that Bellamy won’t think that she’s crazy when he sees her apartment. (After she thinks about that, she has to go back and double-check that the kitchen and bathroom are cleaned and that she didn’t leave anything embarrassing out in her bedroom.)

When the buzzer from the callbox downstairs rings, she nearly jumps out of her skin, tripping over her own feet in the rush to the door. She calls a casual “yeah?” into the box.

“It’s Bellamy.” His voice is tinny through the outdated system, but she still recognizes it easily.

Clarke doesn’t respond, just pushes the button to let him up.

When she opens the apartment door, she stops short of stepping aside and letting him in. “Holy shit!” She squeaks, hand reaching out automatically to trace the bruising surrounding his left eye, fingers light and even gentler over the fresh cut just under his eyebrow.

“Stop, it’s fine.” Bellamy insists, but he makes no move to bat her hand away, just stands patiently as she gingerly inspects the injury.

“What happened?” Clarke asks before she can stop herself. Bellamy just smirks and raises a brow. “Right, yeah, fight club or whatever.” She’s never seen him the day after a fight before, she realizes.

“Is it going to ruin your drawing?”

“No, no, not at all. Actually,” She’s still absently rubbing small circles around the outer edge of the bruise, increasing the blood flow to the injury. “I think I want to draw it.”

“You want to draw my black eye?” He’s smiling now, skin around his eyes pinching, though he’s apparently unfazed by the pressure it must change on the bruise.

She doesn’t answer, instead just asks, “Are you beat up like this every week?”

“Sometimes, but not always. Why, are you looking for me to get my ass kicked more regularly?” He’s smirking, absolutely not serious.

Clarke feels guilty when she says, “Not exactly. I’ve got an idea for my project. I’d explain, but I don’t want to sound like one of those ridiculously crunchy art people. Don’t go around looking to get your ass kicked or anything like that, but just, you know, if it happens again it’d be great if you could let me know so I can draw it.”

He’s still smirking, so she’s confident that she hasn’t insulted him too badly or scared him off. “Got it. If I get beaten into a pulp, let Clarke know so she can immortalize my shame.” 

“That’s the spirit.” She finally takes her hand off of his face – where she’d forgotten it even was – and steps aside to let him into the apartment. “Now let’s get to it before you start doing something terrible like healing.”

Bellamy walks inside and immediately looks comfortable in the space. He kicks his shoes off and places them neatly next to Clarke’s boots in the little pebble tray she’d DiY-ed before classes began last month. He doesn’t stop and scrutinize his surroundings just strolls into the living room and leans against the back of the couch, looking at her expectantly.

“My sketchbook and pencils are in my room, let me just go grab them.” Clarke had left them there purposefully to give herself a chance to collect herself after he arrived, just in case it was necessary. As it turns out, most of her nerves about drawing him have quieted.

She’s confident that she can do this.

Until she walks into the living room and Bellamy’s stripped his shirt off, fingers working at the button on his jeans while his belt hangs loose. “So we just doing this or what?” He asks flippantly at what must be the sound of her feet moving across the floor.

She squeals. She can’t help it, really. “Jesus, Bellamy!” Her hand flies up – sketchbook still clutched between her fingers – to provide a visual barrier between her and a soon-to-be-naked Bellamy Blake.

She hears him laugh. Then hears the rustle of what must be his pants – and dear God, his boxers, maybe? - hitting the floor. Her mouth feels suddenly dry as she realizes that all it would take is one twitch of her arm and she’d get an eyeful of the entirety of Bellamy Blake.

“Sorry.” He tells her. (He’s clearly not, though.) “With how squeamish you got in the studio that day I just figured it’d be easier for you if I didn’t dance around it. Between the boxing and the modeling, nudity’s not really a thing for me anymore.”

“No, no, no, no, no.” Clarke chants, head shaking, eyes squeezed shut even behind the safety of the sketchbook. “Nudity is still very much a thing for you. In my living room. Where you are nude.”

“Should I not be?” He asks and now, finally, there’s some trepidation in his voice.

“Bellamy, I was just going to draw your _face_.”

There’s a long pause and then, finally a fairly quiet, “Oh.”

Then, there’s some more rustling that Clarke takes to be Bellamy getting re-dressed. “I guess I just assumed that figure drawing meant, you know, the whole figure.”

Since he’s speaking again, Clarke assumes it’s safe to drop the sketchbook and look him in the eye. (She’s half-right, because he does have his pants fully fastened. She’s wrong because he’s foregone the belt which means that they hang indecently low on his hips and because he hasn’t put his shirt back on yet. The sight makes her pulse race and her breathing grow shallow.) This, though, she’s seen, so she makes a point to _not_ avert her eyes. After all, Bellamy is right that she’s going to have to get more comfortable with nudity – his nudity, specifically.

“It does, mostly. I was just thinking that I might be able to expand on my idea for my portfolio and enter the series to be considered for a spot in the end of semester art show. I’m thinking I could include some portraits for it. Besides, I’ve never drawn your face before and since I’m focusing on emotion, it’s going to be critical that I’m well-practiced at drawing your expressions.”

“You need to get good at drawing my face?”

“That’s one way to put it.” She shrugs. “So, just, uh, keep all your clothes on until further notice.”

“Are you sure? It seems a shame to cover this up.” His voice is all seriousness, but the way he wiggles his eyebrows makes Clarke think that he’s mostly joking.

“Put your shirt back on or I’ll cover you up in the Hello Kitty blanket I made when I was ten. It’s pink. And kind of scratchy.” She keeps it in the linen closet out of mostly nostalgia. Her dad used to drape it over her bed every night after he’d tucked her in, so despite the fact that it’s hideous and incredibly uncomfortable, she’s never been able to get rid of it.

“Alright, alright, keep your scratchy blankets to yourself.” He reaches for the discarded Henley where it’d been thrown on the couch and pulls it back over his head, covering all that wonderfully taut skin.

Once he’s dressed, it takes Clarke almost a full five minutes to get him positioned how she wants him. He’s sitting in one of the barstools at her breakfast bar, head angled downward so that he’s staring at the counter. (Actually, he’s staring at an apple that’d she’d placed in his line of sight because he initially complained that staring at the random pattern in her granite counters made his eyes cross.) She had to turn off the overhead lights because of the harsh fluorescent glow, replacing them with a stand lamp she pulled in from her bedroom to light him from the side.

She’s just finished sketching the structure of his face when he complains again. “How long do I have to stay like this?”

“It’s been ten minutes. I’ve literally _watched_ you pose for far longer than this.”

He wrinkles his nose. (Clarke tries resolutely to convince herself that it’s _not_ adorable.) “That’s work. This is different. Just me and you sitting in your kitchen. It feels strange to sit in silence.”

“I can turn on some music.” She offers as she moves onto outlining his lips.

“No. I can’t sit still when there’s music on. I like to move to the beat.”

Clarke snorts, imagining Bellamy dance. “What are you, a flamenco dancer or something? ‘Move to the beat.’ That sounds so serious.”

He’s clearly trying not to laugh – the tiny twitch in his upper lip gives him away. “No, I just happen to like music and so what if I like dancing? Maybe you’d be impressed by my moves.”

She scowls as she goes back to erase the work she’s just done. “Doubtful.” Clarke knows that the real Bellamy, the one sitting in front of her right now, is a far cry from who she’d imagined him to be last semester when he was nothing more than an irritating self-important TA, but she can’t imagine a world in which _any_ Bellamy Blake has rhythm.

“Tell me about yourself.” He diverts.

She’s startled, hand skidding along the page to create a stray mark. “What? Why?”

“You’re already annoyed at me for talking. Don’t think I can’t see you angrily erasing. So I can’t talk. We can’t play music. That leaves you, princess.”

“Oh, um, I’m not sure. I get into a zone when I draw and, if I’m talking, I don’t always register the words that are coming out of my mouth.”

“That’s okay, just talk.”

Clarke has to pause in darkening the smooth dip of his cupid’s bow to think for a second. “I’ve known Wells my whole life. He’s one of those friends that you could spend twenty-four hours a day with and be happy, but you also might not talk to them for months at a time and it still doesn’t matter. As soon as you’re together again, it’s like you never left.”

The next hour continues like that. As long as Clarke talks, Bellamy stays perfectly still, eyes focused intently on the apple. So she talks.

She tells him about growing up with Wells – how her mother, Abby, met his father, Thelonious on the campaign trail. He, an aspiring senator. She, a campaign manager. With kids the same age and in the same “acceptable” social class, their friendship – and their children’s, as a byproduct – was a no-brainer. 

She tells him about the horrible rally events that she got dragged to. How she and Wells were always shoved to the forefront as the supportive children, how their friendship created a bridge between the well-to-do upper-class voters that Thelonious usually had and the working class people that saw Clarke’s father as a hero. Jake was the son of a construction worker. He worked hard to get a partial-scholarship to college, worked full time to make the rest of his tuition payments himself and then started his own engineering firm and grew it into a successful multi-million-dollar corporation. (He was a hero, Clarke thinks, and she tells Bellamy as much.) 

Clarke is half-way through telling him about the senior prank that she and Wells engineered together when she realizes that she’s been finished drawing him for a while. (They snuck into the school at night with a bunch of cheap sport watches, set the alarms to go off every 36 minutes during the school day and then hid them in the principal’s office. The office had one of those horrific drop ceilings, so they were able to place them around the room in the ceiling. It took _weeks_ for the principal to finally lose it. The vice principal had to stop him from taking a hammer to the wall in his mad attempts to find “the beeping.”)

“I’m sorry.” She says, standing abruptly from where she’d been perched on the other stool, sketchpad propped in her lap. “I’m finished. I told you I don’t have control over my mouth when I’m concentrated.”

He stands then, stretching his neck all around before his eyes land back on hers. “Don’t worry about it. I like hearing you talk.”

“Yeah?” She asks, cheeks growing a bit warm.

He nods. “So, Chinese?”

Clarke agrees, rising to go find her phone to order. “Sure, but since you’ve just listened to me ramble about my life for the last, God, hour and a half, I think it’s only fair that you return the favor.”

“You want to hear about my life?”

“Yeah, I do. Between the word vomit that just happened and the stalking, I’m at a bit of a disadvantage. I hardly know anything about you that doesn’t relate to punching people or Miller. I think I deserve a little tit for tat.”

Bellamy doesn’t leave for another two hours. The Szechaun Chicken and Fried Rice containers have long-since been empty and they both gave up on the egg rolls and dumplings an hour ago. But still, he stayed, even moved to lay across the couch as Clarke lounged in the big arm chair.

Even without the comfort of TV or music in the back drop, their conversation has been easy. Bellamy’s taken the last two hours to mostly tell Clarke about _Octavia’s_ life, but she gathers from it that he clearly loves his sister more than anything. The paternal tone of voice he takes as he recounts her first date – he embarrassed the crap out of her by threatening her date and discussing the wonders of unprotected sex – makes it clear that Octavia wasn’t exaggerating when she said that Bellamy raised her.

Clarke likes the glimpses she gets of Bellamy’s life through his stories – likes the nurturing figure that he unwittingly paints himself to be. When he stands and stretches, she feels her heart sink a bit knowing that he must be able to walk out the door.

“You leaving?” She asks, aiming for casual when he finishes groaning through a stretch.

“Yeah, it’s almost ten and I’ve got about two hundred pages of reading to finish before my first class tomorrow. It’s probably time.”

“Oh, crap!” Clarke blanches. “I didn’t mean to keep you. I’m sorry. You should have told me to shut up ages ago.”

He smiles then, that blinding, knee-weakening smile. “Don’t worry about it. I wanted to stay.”

“Okay. So, next week, maybe? Let me know if you get your face smashed in again.”

His laugh is muffled as he pulls his sweatshirt over his head, but it’s still clear enough to make Clarke’s heart flutter lightly. She’s never been what she considers funny. She likes that she’s able to make him laugh – even if sometimes it’d been at her expense. “The best way to find out as soon as possible would just be to come to the fight, you know.”

“Text me the details and maybe I’ll consider it.”

“You got it.” He says as he reaches the door.

As Clarke follows him out, she can’t help but feel like she should be kissing him goodnight. She has to actively stop herself from leaning in when he pauses to turn in the doorway and say one last goodnight, because the last few hours have felt alarmingly like she imagines a good date might go. (She can’t remember if she’s ever been on a good date, though, for comparison’s sake.)


	12. Chapter 12

As October comes and starts to go, Bellamy falls into what he likes to consider a comfortable routine with Clarke. Every Saturday night, he takes one or two more shots than he normally would – not enough to cause any real, lasting damage, and never enough to make him lose a fight that he should win, just enough to give him an excuse to text her the next morning. She’s only been to one fight since their first meeting for her portfolio. He’d like to say that he’s disappointed that she hasn’t been to more, but then either he’d have to stop pulling punches and stop having an excuse to see her the next day or he’d have to explain to her what he’s doing. Neither of those sound like good options.

He takes a few gnarly kicks to the side from a hotshot he’s never seen fight the week before Halloween. He wakes up the next morning aching, sore and bruised. On his right side, the pebbled fabric of his opponent’s shoe have left a stinging abrasion along his ribs. On his left, he’s bruised in a-near perfect imprint of the treads from the bottom of the guy’s sneaker.

It sucks.

Clarke’s going to love it.

It’s a struggle to wipe the smile off his face as he reaches for his phone. He takes a photo of the damage, makes sure to get his face in the frame with an exaggerated pout because he knows it will make Clarke laugh. He captions it **How bad do you want some of this?** and sends it to her.

The response is immediate.

 **!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!** With a string of emojis.

And then:

**I must see you IMMEDIATELY**

Bellamy debates briefly – he’s supposed to be leaving in a half hour to meet Octavia for brunch. It’s not that he’s debating on whether or not he’s going to go, because he knows that he’s _not_. Clarke said that she needs to _see_ him. Not draw him. _See him._ And he knows that she means that she’s going to draw him, that’s it’s mostly just for the portfolio, but the verb change seems important. 

No, instead he’s debating on what to tell Octavia. She knows he’s been modeling for Clarke after he leaves the diner on Sundays. She’s heard him wax poetically about the way that she bites her lip when she’s concentrating on part of her sketch. She’s heard him retell the stories she tells him – things like her father’s death, the way her relationship with her mother has never been the same since then, how she’s caught half way between her dream of being an artist and her dream of being a doctor, how she’s not sure if being a doctor is actually her dream or her mothers. Mostly, he tells her the stories that mean something to him, the stories that tell him that falling for Clarke like this makes sense. Probably because he’s still convincing himself that this monumental leap he’s been thinking about taking is really a good idea. (Bellamy Blake doesn’t _do_ relationships. He loves Octavia and no one else. It’s safer that way.)

Sighing, he gives Octavia a call.

“Bell.” She answers, her tone a warning.

“What?” He asks, playing for innocent.

“Bellamy Blake are you cancelling on me?”

“How’d you know?”

She heaves a dramatic sigh. “No other reason for you to call me when you’re supposed to see me in a little bit. Why are you ditching? You better have a good reason.”

“Clarke wants to see me.” And even to his own ears he sounds like a sap.

Octavia snorts and he’s not sure if it’s at the words he’s said or the way he’s said them. He also doesn’t want to ask. “Clarke wants to see you every Sunday as long as you’ve gotten your face beaten in the night before.”

“Yeah, but this is different. I think something is going to happen today.”

“Nothing just _happens_ , Bell. You’re not going to trip and fall and _happen_ to land with your lips on hers or _happen_ to land with your dick inside her. Usually someone has to actually _do something_ about it. Are you telling me you’re going to finally do something about it, Bell?”

Bellamy bristles. “It depends on how it goes, but I think I’m – I think I trust her.”

This earns him another sigh, but it’s more resigned than anything. “Fine, but you better tell me if you finally make a move. And, just for payback, next time I come home for the weekend I’m going to stay at Lincoln’s place and you’re not allowed to complain or be generally over-bearing at all.”

“Fine.” He’s hoping that the next time Octavia comes home for the weekend, he’ll be too distracted with Clarke to have time to complain or be generally over-bearing.

“Good luck, big brother.” Octavia tells him genuinely.

When he hangs up, he texts Clarke a quick **be there in 10** and walks out the door.

______________________________________________________________

Three times, Bellamy has come to Clarke’s for her to sketch him. Twice, she just sketched his face. They sat innocently in the kitchen the second time – just like the first – and she rambled about her relationship with her mother while she drew him, his lip split from a fight the night before. Afterwards, they ate pizza and he talked about Miller, how they became friends all those years ago.

Last week, she had him take his shirt off, grip his hair in his hands and drew him from the waist up. While she sketched, she told him about her father and afterwards she made him pancakes – “it’s the only thing I can make right, Bellamy” – and he divulged some of the other odd jobs he’s taken on through the years.

Each time, it was comfortable – easy.

Today, he’s standing in her living room in the light of the day for the first time, thinking idly how different in looks with sunlight streaming through the windows, while Clarke sizes him up. She’s shuffling on her feet, face flushing a bit. He’s pretty confident that she’s either about to make a move of her own, or perhaps ask him to remove some more clothing this time.

“Can I see your battle wounds?” She asks, clearly aiming for casual and light-hearted, but there’s a slight tremor in her voice that gives her away and ensures that she misses by miles.

Bellamy pulls off his jacket, tossing it on the couch to free up both of his hands so that he can pull his shirt overhead. “Jesus.” Clarke breathes, taking in the injuries from a distance. She cracks a moment later, maneuvering around the couch toward him to press her fingers against one side, then the other.

It’s Bellamy’s turn to suck in a breath at the feel of Clarke’s warm fingers splayed across his ribs. “Would you stop prodding me?” He says, feigning annoyance as she presses across both bruising injuries.

This has also become a part of the routine. When Clarke spies injuries, she has this habit of just putting her hands on them – warranted, wanted or not. It makes the pain of each blow worth it ten times over. (He’s briefly considered what it would take to make bruises bloom on other parts of his body – maybe low on his hip bones or back, not anywhere closer to where he really wants her because, let’s face it, he’s not _that_ sadistic – but ultimately dismissed the thought.)

“What happened this time?” She keeps both hands spread across his sides, but tilts her head up to look at him. It’s one of those moments where he realizes just how large their height difference is. With her standing so close, she has to seriously crane her head to be able to look him in the eye.

“New guy in the ring likes to use his feet a lot. It’s not something I’m used to protecting myself against.” She frowns and this tiny crease appears between her eyebrows. Having her hands on his skin makes him feel brave, so he doesn’t resist the urge to reach up and smooth over it with his thumb. Then he cracks a smile so she’ll stop looking so pouty. “Don’t worry, I still won.”

“Good.” She casts her eyes downward for a moment, but when she sets her gaze back on his she’s smiling. Her hands have migrated from his bruised sides, now pressed against his pecs. “So I was thinking.” The fingers from one hand start drumming lightly on his skin, a nervous tic he’s guessing.

“Sounds dangerous.” He teases and _God_ does he love how far they’ve come since that night at Feve.

A small laugh bubbles from her throat before she backs off, hands dropping from his chest so that he can feel their absence acutely. Her back is to him when she says, “I need you to take your pants off.”

“For the drawing.” He clarifies because he knows that it’d be absurd for her to suddenly decide she needed his pants off so that she could use his body for _other_ reasons, but he just has to be 100% sure.

“Yeah, I – it’s figure drawing, after all, so I should probably get to drawing your, well, figure.” At least she turns to face him now. He can see the light flush in her cheeks, but she’s far from the spluttering mess she was that first night when he sprung his nudity on her. (Probably because he’s not suddenly throwing it in her face out of nowhere.) “I know you’ve done it tons of times before – getting naked for people to draw you – but it’s different when you’re here in my apartment and it’s just you and me. I’ve been avoiding it because I didn’t want it to be any more awkward than it needed to be.”

He nods once, eyes narrowed. “But now me being naked won’t be awkward.”

“No, it probably will be. But before _we_ were sort of awkward – between the Finn and the stalking and then, well, Raven and everything. But now we’re good, right? We’re comfortable?”

He’s not sure if she really means to say it as a question, but he’s inclined to soothe her worries regardless. “Of course we’re comfortable. I’d say we make a pretty good pair, princess.”

She nods, then asks, “Do you need me to turn around? Or leave the room or something? Do you want a robe? You had a robe during class that time. Actually, I don’t have a robe. A towel, maybe?”

“Stop being all flustered. It’s distracting. Just do whatever you want. I don’t need anything.” His hands go to his belt and he _sees_ more than _feels_ the breath that she sucks in.

Truth be told, his own pulse is racing, his breath going a bit shallow. He _has_ been naked in front of more people than he can probably even count. He’s even been naked in front of Clarke. She’s right, though, about how different this feels. The two of them in her apartment. It’s _intimate_ in a way that’s starkly contrasted to the sort of clinical feel of standing on a pedestal in a studio.

Bellamy hopes that she doesn’t notice the way that his hands shake as he pulls his belt free from his belt loops, taking more care than necessary to coil it and lay it on top of his shirt where it’s sitting discarded on the couch. It takes a few moments longer than usual to unbutton his pants with the tremor running through his fingers and the sound that his zipper makes as he lowers it seems to echo in the silence of the apartment. He hooks his fingers into his jeans and his boxers at the same time, tugging them down in a swift moment before he has a chance to stop himself.

Jesus, this was so much easier three weeks ago when he tried to just go for it. He should’ve just gone for it again the moment he saw her blushing when he walked through the door. He knew they were going to end up here anyway.

It’s probably cowardly the way that he fixates on removing his pants from each ankle, folding them and stacking them on top of the other discarded clothes. (And then he realizes that he’s standing there wearing only socks and that’s probably the least attractive way to ever be naked, so he busies himself with remove those, too and being meticulous in folding them together.)

When Bellamy has run out of ways to distract himself, he straightens and looks back at her. She seems to be resolutely _not_ looking away from him, but she’s blinking far more than is probably strictly necessary.

“You okay?” He asks, because he’s supposed to be the expert at casual, meaningless nudity. (Didn’t he give a whole speech about how nudity didn’t exist for him anymore? Man, he was stupid.)

This doesn’t feel like being naked _in front of Clarke_ , it feels a hell of a lot like being naked _for Clarke_.

It’s not that he has a problem with being naked _for Clarke_. He’s not blind or deaf. He knows the way that women look at him, talk about him. He’s worked all his life, muscle comes easily with the kinds of physical jobs he’s taken on over the years and fighting has toned it into something more defined than just an extra layer under his skin. He’s not vain, but – okay, maybe he is kind of vain – he knows he looks good naked. 

“This is weird, right?” Clarke asks, eyes straying south of his chin momentarily before they sweep back up. Jesus, she’s not looking at him like an artist surveying a subject.

Bellamy shrugs. “Not really. It’s only weird if you make it weird.”

“No, it’s definitely weird.” She nods and then her hands start toying with the hem of her t-shirt, another nervous tic, he guesses. “Maybe it would be less weird if we evened things out?”

“Even things out?” Bellamy repeats, not understanding what she’s getting at.

It’s hard to not get the picture when she starts pulling the hem of her shirt upwards.


	13. Chapter 13

Bellamy sort of hates himself as he crosses the room at a run – also tries not to think about how weird parts of his anatomy must look while running naked? He clasps Clarke’s wrists firmly in his hands just as the hem of her shirt starts flirting with the – dear, God - _lace edge of her bra._

“Before you do that,” he starts, pausing to clear his throat when he realizes how raspy his voice sounds. “I’m not going to stop you from doing that, but before you do I need to know why. I’ve got to know what’s going on inside that pretty head of yours, princess.”

Because _God_ this close he can see the way her pupils are blown wide and he doesn’t know if this was a plan or if this is off the cuff or how she’s going to feel about it in the morning. And for all that he’s terrible at this kind of thing, he thinks Clarke is making this pretty obvious, but he needs to make sure he’s not going to screw this up. At this point, he’s in too deep to accept that this might just be a one night stand, or that it might be Clarke trying to get him out of her system after Raven's talked him up. He needs to know if maybe, just maybe, she’s just plainly treating this as tit for tat. (He has to forcibly stop himself from laughing at the mental pun.)

“I was just thinking that maybe you’d be more comfortable sitting around naked, posing, if I were sitting around naked drawing. You know, even Stevens and all.”

Bellamy nods, processing. “So you’re just going to strip down and we’re both going to sit here naked, doing the whole art thing just like any other week, minus the clothes. Not anything else.” He needs explicitness. Clarke shrugs, bites down gently on her lower lip. 

“Maybe?” Her voice comes out as a squeak. And, yes, it’s not exactly words, but it’s enough. He’s just not sure whether this idea popped into her head before or after she got an eyeful of him naked – but as he thinks back to the flush on her cheeks when he walked in the door today, he’s thinking she’s had it since before he arrived fully clothed.

“Okay, but before you get naked, there’s something I have to say.” And he can tell from the look on Clarke’s face that she’s imagining that this is where he says something like ‘I’m asexual’ or ‘I’m only sexually attracted to historical figures.’

Even with her the words she hasn’t said, but has had running across her face so clearly for the last month, standing here literally naked in front of her, he needs to take a deep breath to steel himself before he can get metaphorically naked. “I like you, Clarke. I liked you last semester because you were ridiculous and combative and maybe the only person in the world who’s as stubborn as me, and damn am I stubborn. And in the last few weeks you’ve probably been able to guess enough of my own hang ups on trust and relationships -- just letting people in. I don’t do it – just don’t. For so long it’s just been me and Octavia – even Miller has always been cursory by contrast.

“It’s probably why it took me so long to realize that I even liked you. I didn’t know what that feeling was – wanting someone in my life. I probably wouldn’t have ever realized it if Octavia hadn’t all but slapped me in the face with it. But it’s true. I do. I like you, Clarke Griffin, and I – I’m willing to give this a shot with you, a real shot – not just for tonight. That is, I mean, if you’re willing to give this a shot with me, too, I guess. just needed you to know that _before_ you started taking your clothes off so that you could be sure that I like _you_ and not just naked you.” He takes a deep breath when it’s all out, feeling kind of terrified and also like a huge weight has been lifted off his shoulders.

Clarke blinks at him a few times. “Go sit on the floor.” She says sternly, almost like she’s putting a child in time-out.

And – what?

“What?”

“Go sit on the floor.” She repeats, same rigid tone of voice. “I’ve got things to say and I’m going to say them while I draw you or else this will never get done.”

And, well, okay.

Bellamy understands at this point that he and Clarke are really awful at this – the communicating with other humans thing – but this he was not expecting. But if she’s going to talk, he wants to listen regardless of what she says, so he just sort of plops himself on the floor, leaning against the couch and waits intently. He’s so concerned now with Clarke’s reaction to this, honestly, long-time-coming confession, that he doesn’t have it in him to be simultaneously concerned with his nakedness.

Clarke fusses for a moment, rearranging his limbs until he’s leaning back casually, one leg pulled up so that the view of his junk is completely unobstructed. (He’s also so preoccupied that he can’t even enjoy the feel of her hands on his bare skin.) “Okay, good. Now I need you to look happy.”

He draws his brows down in confusion and the frustrated look on Clarke’s face reminds him that that’s the opposite of what he’s supposed to be doing. He grins broadly, but it feels closer to “serial killer” than “happy person.”

“No.” Clarke groans. “Not like – oh, fuck it.” She leans in and kisses him – it’s not much more than a quick, dry press of her lips against his. They’ve had far more intense kisses before. It shouldn’t leave him stupidly grinning like a fool. (It still does, though.) Clarke pulls back and scrutinizes his face before nodding. “Yeah, perfect, stay like that.”

Bellamy’s not sure what his face is doing, other than looking generally ridiculous, but then Clarke _does_ strip off her shirt and he feels confident that the look becomes permanently cemented on his face. She picks up her sketchbook then and starts drawing him. He’s transfixed on the new expanse of bare skin. It’s not even the swell of her breasts, nearly spilling out of the lacy blue bra – though, yeah, if he’s being honest, he’s pretty mesmerized by those too. It’s just all the new territory. There are so many new moles for him to catalogue, little birth marks to memorize.

“Bellamy Blake, I swear to God, I hate you.” Is her opening line.

His face definitely falls immediately.

She puts her pencil down and shimmies out of her leggings a few moments later, though, and it softens the blow.

“You are the single most infuriating person that I have ever met in my entire life. And I was raised by Abby Griffin, so that’s saying something. The worst part is that you never know when to pick the hill that you’re going to die on – you die on _every single hill_. You think that everything that you love should be everything that everyone else loves and if they don’t know enough about history or mythology or beer you judge first and ask questions later. Jesus, Bellamy, you stalked me. Do you know how fucked up that is?” There’s a small smile on her face despite the rather unflattering picture she’s painting.

Any hope of being able to keep that goofy grin on his face is definitely gone now, though.

“But you also went to bat for me against Finn and if I summed up your major character flaw here, it’d be that you just sort of care too much and don’t know how to deal with it. You’re wickedly smart and, Christ, Bell, you raised your little sister – sacrificed almost everything so that she had a shot at the life you wanted her to be able to have. Actually, I think Octavia described you far better than I ever could. She said that you’re kind of terrible at life, but you’re a really good man.” 

Her fingers still over the sketchbook in her lap, eyes darting rapidly between Bellamy where he sits a few feet away and the page in front of her. He opens his mouth, eager to respond – to ask if she’s saying what he thinks she’s saying. She must notice it, because she balances the book against her thigh, reaches up and unclasps the front hook on her bra, taking an extra moment to slide it off both arms.

And, well, if her goal was to render him speechless, she’s certainly succeeded. Clarke sighs and Bellamy really hopes it’s not because he’s so easily distracted by her breasts. He wants to live up the moniker of “good man” that she just gave him, he really does, but her breasts should probably be classified as one of the natural wonders of the world. They look like a perfect handful for his wide palms, perky and so delicately pale. Her nipples quickly grow tight and hard, though he’s not sure if it’s from the temperature of the room or from his incessant staring. Either way, he can’t wait to get his mouth on them.

Clarke clears her throat, pulling him way from waxing poetic in his head, which is probably a good thing. If he let’s himself get any deeper into that thought, his blood is going to start rushing south pretty quickly and as awkward as it would probably be to get hard in this situation, his first thought is that it would suck if the anatomical change ruined Clarke’s drawing.

He’s saved when Clarke starts again. “I’m really bad at this, too. I’m sure you’ve noticed, but it’s worth saying out loud. I just don’t really do _people_ and you’re one new person, which is bad enough. But you swooped in with not just you, but Miller and then Lexa and now Monty’s around _all the time_ and your sister – you’re kind of a package deal. That’s a lot of new people for me and it’s just _hard_. Every single survival instinct I’ve got says ‘run!’

“It’s why I couldn’t – wouldn’t do anything about this little crush until I knew for sure. Especially after Finn, I couldn’t rush into things. But I think that two months is long enough. I think that you, Bellamy Blake, are trustworthy. I think – no, sorry, that doesn’t sound good enough. I like you, Bellamy. I want you – not just like _want you_ , although I do, but want you in my life.”

And yeah, it’s been coming for a while now, but Bellamy sucks in a relieved breath when she finally says it explicitly. After so long of dancing around the possibility, the black and white admission is exactly what he needs.

His hands twitch for her before he remembers that he’s supposed to be posing. “Clarke, please tell me that I can move.”

One corner of her mouth pulls up, but she keeps her eyes on the page. “No, sorry. I need, like, ten more minutes.”

Bellamy checks the clock on the wall, doing his best to move his eyes and not his head. “I’m not going to be able to sit still for that long unless you keep talking to me.” Because, dammit, he’s waited the better part of two months to be able to touch her without having to have a reason and he doesn’t know how much time has passed since she started removing clothing, but she can’t torture him much longer.

She scrutinizes Bellamy for a moment and something about the way her eyes drag up his body makes him think that it’s not for the purpose of her drawing. “Well,” she begins, voice sounding a little bit huskier than it did just a minute ago, “all Raven talked about after that night she spent with you was your fingers and how amazing they are. And I am kind of dying to find out if she was just exaggerating. I don’t think she was though. You’ve got great hands – thick fingers, rough callouses. I bet it’d just take two fingers before I started shaking, but that’s not what I want tonight. I don’t want the one-night special.”

Clarke shakes her head, breathing out shakily. “Besides, I feel like I’ve had _months_ of foreplay. Even just sitting here thinking about it, looking at you, finally knowing for sure that you really do want me, too – I had every intention of getting completely naked for you, I really did. Fair is fair, after all. But, I’m so fucking wet for you already that I’m worried I might ruin my couch if I take my panties off.”

Bellamy hears his own breathing grow heavy, feels pressure light in his groin as his blood migrates south from his brain quickly enough that he almost feels light-headed. He never imagined that Clarke would have a filthy mouth – or that she could make it sound so _sweet_ \-- and suddenly months of fantasizing about her have become inadequate in the span of just a few minutes.

“I’ve been imagining all the ways that you could put your stupid strength to good use since that last fight. Bell, I can’t do any more foreplay. As soon as I’m finished with this stupid fucking drawing, I want to see if you can pick me up and fuck me against the wall. I want to know if the great Bellamy Blake is as good as they say.”

Bellamy is pretty sure that there’s an insult in there somewhere – or some kind of judgment on his character, something that he should be angry about – but he can’t focus enough to find it. Instead he pours every ounce of willpower and concentration he has into _not_ moving. He tells himself over and over that if he moves, it’s only going to take longer.

It feels like it’s been an eternity when Clarke sets her sketchbook aside and says. “Okay.”

He springs up from the floor, doesn’t miss the squeal of indignation that Clarke makes when he _doesn’t_ beeline for her. Instead, he goes to retrieve the condom in his wallet from his discarded pants – knows that he never would’ve been able to stop long enough to think about it after he’s gotten his hands on her.

He makes quick work of rolling the latex over his length before lunging for Clarke. He hooks both hands under her ass – and barely takes half a second to notice how amazing it feels in his hands, but there’ll be time to appreciate later, he thinks – and hoists her up into his arms. She locks her arms and legs around him, trapping his erection between their bodies, her breasts rubbing against the bare skin of his chest. They both shiver at the contact.

It takes just a second to walk them across the room and Clarke’s back crashes into the wall hard enough to rattle the pictures she has hanging. Once he’s got her pressed against the solid surface, he’s able to spare a moment to lean in and capture her lips. It’s not an elegant kiss, instead it’s sloppy and chaotic, more tongue and teeth than it is lips, but it’s hungry and intense and just _perfect_.

When Clarke pulls back, she keeps her forehead locked to his and whimpers out a pained, “Bell, please.”

And _fuck_.

Having her here in his arms, mostly naked, saying his name like that – it sends a shudder so violent down his spine that they’re briefly in danger of falling over. The smirk that Clarke shoots his way tells him that she knows exactly what caused it.

No foreplay, she said, but he needs to make sure that he’s not about to hurt her. He shifts her weight onto one arm so that he can reach down and push her panties to the side – too caught up to figure out how to actually take them off efficiently. He sinks two fingers into her heat and she’s so wet that they slide in with no resistance – the resulting moan that she gives him is the hottest thing he’s ever heard. Her walls are hot and tight around his fingers, while Clarke squirms in his arms, mouth breathing hotly behind his ears now and he can’t wait any longer to get inside of her.

“Clarke – “ He starts as he pulls his fingers back.

She lifts one hand from the back of his neck to tug sharply at his hair and seethes, “I swear to fucking God, I just wrote you a monologue about how bad I want your cock inside me. If you ask me if I’m sure I’m going to punch you. Fucking fuck me, Bell.”

And let the record show that Bellamy can follow orders.

He lines himself up to her entrance with one hand and thrusts forward, sliding home in one smooth motion. She clenches around him immediately and he has to drop his forehead to her shoulder and grit his teeth to keep this from being over far too soon.

As it is, it doesn’t last nearly as long as he wants it to – both to savor the moment and for the sake of his pride. But Clarke feels like perfection around him and she keeps tugging at his hair, biting at his neck and whispering encouragements in his ear. _God, Bell, you feel so good,_ and _Just like that, just like that_ and then she just moans his name over and over again.

He has to bring one hand down to her clit, rubbing in frantic little circles, just to make sure that she comes at least once before he does. It’s feeling her flutter and then clamp tight around him as she comes – head thrown back against the wall, _his name on her lips_ \- that pulls him over the edge.

Though it's quick, Bellamy is exhausted afterward - muscles starting to tremble with the effort of holding Clarke up with one hand. He slides down onto the floor, Clarke folded up in his lap. The easy way that she collapses on his chest, face buried in his neck as she catches her breath makes his heart squeeze in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh! Some of you may have come and seen a chapter 14 posted after this. Probably because there _was_ a chapter 14 posted after this. I wasn't super happy with it, but had decided to push through it and come back to edit later.
> 
> Except then a lovely commenter was kind enough to give me some advice on my struggle-bussing characterization and then I was kind of like, true story bro, WHY IS THIS HERE IF I'M NOT HAPPY WITH IT?!
> 
> So instead, you're going to have to wait a little bit longer for Chapter 14. But I promise it will be way better than it would've been. :)


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reworked and cut some of the timeline I had sketched out, which made the plot way more organic (for me, at least). I'm infinitely happier with this Ch 14 than I was with the deleted version.
> 
> Thanks for your patience!!

It’s crazy how much the sex does and doesn’t change things between Clarke and Bellamy.

On the one hand, Clarke finds that now that they’ve slept together, Bellamy can’t seem to keep his hands off of her. It’s a literal thing, not even that he’s trying to get her back out of her clothes. He shows up at her Monday morning class with coffee and a pastry and walks her across campus with an arm around her shoulders. Wednesday evening, he texts saying that he’ll bring pizza if she’s up for a movie night. They spend three hours on the couch, _cuddling_ , while Bellamy runs his hands through Clarke’s hair ceaselessly. 

(To be fair, the cuddling did end with Clarke yelling at Bellamy to “stop working me up if you’re not going to do something about it!” In the end, he proves that if she’s already come apart on his tongue once, he can make her shake with just _one_ finger.)

On the other hand, that’s pretty much the _only_ thing that’s changed. On Monday, they spend their walk bickering about why Latin is still used and taught in modern society and whether or not it should be left to be forgotten. On Wednesday, it takes them fifteen minutes to decide on something watch, and they only finally make a decision because Clarke concedes and accepts reruns of some DiY show, mostly so that Bellamy will continue running his nails over her scalp.

______________________________________________________________

Clarke isn’t exactly under any illusions that she and Bellamy are “casual.” Not after the build up and the Sunday morning confessions. She’s just also aware of the fact that they’ve only been trying out this relationship for a few days. So when Bellamy says that he has a fight on Halloween, and asks her to come, she doesn’t think it’s exactly in the realm of possibilities to ask him to go with her in some sort of couple’s costume.

(But Clarke is a sucker for couple’s costumes. It’s just a thing. Don’t ask why.)

So she might hint to him that he looks good in red when they talk on Saturday morning – since he almost always wears black sweats to fights – and digs the old tiger onesie she’d bought in high school for a theme day out of the back of her closet.

When Bellamy swings by her apartment to pick her up, he gives her a brief once over and a patented Bellamy Blake smirk. “Cute.” He tells her, maybe a little facetiously. 

Clarke shrugs, one hand tucking into the built in pocket of the pajamas. “I’m kind of a fan of Halloween comfort over sex appeal.”

Bellamy plucks at one of the ears on the hood. “I think it’s safe to say you won’t get lost in the crowd tonight.” It’s true. She’s a veritable Tigger – or Hobbes as the case may be – tail and all. She'll likely stick out.

Apparently, since it’s a “holiday,” the fight roster is longer than usual. As a result, Lexa’s moved the night’s fights from one of the frat basements and into the abandoned top floor of the old tannery downtown. It means that Clarke and Bellamy have to drive to the fight. Clarke learns that Bellamy has his own truck – a big flat-bed Ford, a little beat up, but in good enough shape for him to have used on the odd weekend to make some extra cash providing moving services.

Clarke is exhausted by the time they breach into the main crowd. The fleece onesie doesn’t quite vent the heat accumulating on her skin from the climb. (One thing Lexa might not have thought through about the fight relocation is the fact that a tannery in disuse has no working elevator and it’s nine flights of stairs to the top floor for the fight.)

The open space is massive, which means that whichever fight is currently going on is contained to one side of the room, while people mill freely on the other. There’s even a make-shift bar in one corner. Clarke spots Miller cheerily pouring out of a variety of bottles – some labeled, some that look home made – and occasionally from a keg. It’s impossible to forget that she’s standing in the middle of a mostly illegal fight ring, but Clarke has to admit that this is a big step up from the frat basements.

Clarke beelines for Miller since Bellamy seems to be letting her lead tonight and she’s sure that where Miller goes Monty is sure to follow – and Jasper is likely to follow Monty these days. They’re half way across the room (Bellamy’s hand on her tail – literally, gripping the plush tail of the onesie like a make-shift toddler leash) when Lexa appears in front of them. Appearing out of nowhere seems to be a talent of hers.

Lexa scrutinizes her briefly before her eyes dart over Clarke’s shoulder to Bellamy. She stares (or maybe glares?) at him, unblinking for long enough that Clarke’s eyes water in sympathy, before nodding her head. “You’ll suit each other.” She says decisively.

Clarke cocks her head to the side. “Thank you?”

Bellamy snorts behind her, hand releasing her tail and coming to rest on her shoulder instead. “Anything else we should know?”

Lexa purses her lips briefly. “The little Blake is fighting tonight against another girl she brought with her.”

Clarke can _feel_ every muscle in Bellamy’s body lock, so abrupt that it must be painful. “What?” He grinds out through closed teeth.

“She’s over eighteen.” Lexa explains with a casual shrug. “I had no reason to stop her.”

“Yeah, sure, except for –“ Bellamy cuts himself off with a frustrated groan. “I don’t have time for this. Where is she?”

“In the ring. Her fight should be starting…” Lexa averts her eyes toward the crowd of people on the fight-centric side of the room. She nods at the exact moment that they roar to life again. “Now.”

“God damn it.” Bellamy’s head whips toward the fight, hand twitching on Clarke’s shoulder as he angles her to face him so that he can speak to her face. “Are you good if I go?”

“I’m good, just try not to be an asshole? Remember that you do this every week.” Bellamy grins wryly and the kiss he drops to Clarke’s temple tingles slightly as he jogs off toward his sister’s fight.

When it’s just the two of them, Lexa raises an eyebrow at Clarke. “Just a misunderstanding, hm?”

Clarke sighs, but supposes these conversations are going to be unavoidable now. (Though she’s successfully avoided telling literally anyone in her life about the slight change in her relationship with Bellamy. Up until tonight, she’s rationalized that the only thing that’s changed is physicality, so why should it matter?) “It was a misunderstanding at the time.”

“And now?”

“Now we’re both understanding each other pretty well, not that it’s any of your business – still. What were you doing that night anyway? Was that some kind of a test I was supposed to pass?” Clarke thinks back to the last strained one-on-one encounter she had with Lexa on the night that Bellamy fought Finn.

Lexa throws another casual shrug her way. “Bellamy is all heart. Sometimes he needs other people to use their brains for him so that he doesn’t go jumping off the wrong cliffs.”

“And me?”

“I think you might be the right cliff to jump off of.” And with that, like it’s the most normal exit line in the world, Lexa spins on her heel and strides away.

Clarke’s still not sure what her deal is with Bellamy – if they’re friends, enemies, reluctant colleagues of sorts – but she hopes that more interactions with Lexa aren’t a regular occurrence in her future.

When Clarke sidles up to the makeshift bar, Miller greets her with a shockingly mundane, “Clarke.”

“That’s it? Just Clarke?” She’s not sure that he’s _ever_ called her Clarke – at least not as a greeting.

Miller shrugs, jerks his head vaguely in the direction of the fight. “That’s a thing now, right? I’m not sure Bellamy would appreciate me continuing to call you Dick Chick.”

And that makes Clarke pause. To her knowledge, Bellamy hasn’t told anyone about their change in dynamics any more than she has. “How’d you know?”

“He’s my best friend. He might think he’s good at keeping people at a distance, but we both know that’s not true.” He says, like it’s all the explanation he needs. Clarke just waits patiently, knowing that if she doesn’t say anything he’ll feel compelled to keep talking. “It was too casual. He wouldn’t walk away from you that easy, especially not here, unless he knew he’d be able to come back just as easily.”

Clarke finds herself momentarily speechless, mouth uselessly fluttering open for a minute before she finally says, “Octavia is fighting."

(Miller pours for too long and overflows the little plastic shot cup.)

He swears under his breath as he cleans up the mess. Eventually, he clears his throat and turns back to her. “Even still.” Is all he says on the topic.

“What is that stuff?” Clarke asks, pointing to the puddle of foul-smelling liquor. The aroma – no, stench is a better description – seeps into her nose even from this distance.

Miller grins, entire demeanor softening slightly. “Monty’s moonshine. He started brewing the stuff in his dorm room. It could probably get tar off a black top, but it’ll get you black-out drunk in three shots or less, guaranteed.”

“Pass.” Clarke says immediately. “Where is Monty anyway?”

“Last I saw he was getting twitchy about all the reprogramming he needs to do to his algorithm with all the new fighters tonight – and something about atmospheric differentials. It’s all Greek to me.”

It’s in that moment that Jasper slides up next to Clarke at the bar. He reaches out and plucks at the whiskers lining the sides of her hood. “Heard you owe me a bottle of Wasabi vodka.” It doesn’t take very long for Clarke to make the connection, but she stares at Jasper for a full minute, mouth gaping as she wonders how he knows. 

“Are you mad?” She asks, bracing for a melt down.

“I was for a minute.” He shrugs. “I made a big stink about it to Monty – there were pouty lips involved and, I'm told, whining. But then he reminded me that I’ve been seeing this girl -- from that philosophy class I’m auditing -- for the last two weeks and I haven’t told you about her yet. Seems like a fair trade off, even if there was liquor riding on _your_ relationship.”

And Clarke wants to hear about the philosophy girl, she does, but she has curiosity to sate first and needs to know who else she should be bracing for tonight. “How’d you figure it out?”

Jasper laughs, this choppy little giggle like he’s got a secret. “The Commander came in to talk to Monty. Apparently your newfound romance decreases Bellamy’s odds of winning, so Monty had to adjust his numbers.”

(Clarke has to actively restrain herself so that she doesn’t literally face-palm.)

“Please tell me about your philosophy girl so that I don’t dwell on the absurdity that is my life tonight.” She begs.

Apparently, her name is Maya. She’s big into the philosophy of modern society and social justice. She’s looking to get into some intense policy-work after graduation. They made moon eyes at each other across the lecture hall for a full month before _Maya_ finally asked Jasper out. Jasper’s in the middle of recounting his first date – dinner at his apartment, which he burned terribly because he was so nervous, followed by tacos at the food truck on 5th – when Raven pops up on Clarke’s other side.

“Perfect post-Finn relationship?” She half-asks, half-tells, a sheepish grin on her face.

Clarke’s not even going to both asking how she knows. She’s just going to assume that the whole world knows now, so she nods at Raven. “You might’ve been spot on with that one.”

Raven nudges her with her elbow. “Were you ever going to tell me that I was salivating after the guy you liked?”

“We bonded over liking the same guy once. It didn’t seem like something that could happen twice, so I didn’t really want to chance it.”

Raven sighs, resigned. “I forgive you for letting me make a fool out of myself, only because you had the best intentions. Now, are you ready to watch my new boyfriend beat the stuffing out of your new boyfriend?”

And Clarke chokes on air at that. “Is everyone in a secret new relationship around here?”

Jasper tuts and chimes in. “Nobody’s been keeping secrets, exactly, we’ve all just been too absorbed in other things to share yet.”

“Fair,” Clarke concedes. “So new boyfriend?”

“Remember my completely anti-procrastination project manager for engineering?” Raven asks and, yeah, if Clarke thinks hard enough she does, so she nods. “Turns out he’s not as big of a jerk when he’s not playing leader. When I mentioned this thing, he couldn’t resist – he’s a little bit of an adrenaline junkie. Wick being pitted against Bellamy was pure coincidence, though.”

“This isn’t going to end well for anyone, is it?” Jasper asks.

“Probably not.” Clarke and Raven respond at the same time, but they're both half-laughing as they imagine the after-math.


	15. Chapter 15

Bellamy shoves his way through the crowd none-too-gently, trying to get to the ring so that he can, hopefully, drag his sister back out of it before she gets any too hurt. _What the hell could Octavia be thinking?_

It’s as though Lexa were expecting him to do exactly this, because prowling the edge of the ring is her new bouncer. He’s got a permanent scowl etched onto his features, a wicked half-moon scar around one eye-socket that he refuses to speak of and an intense hatred for Bellamy. He’s probably the only bouncer who’d be willing to stand between Bellamy and Octavia.

Octavia and the other girl are merely circling each other in the center of the ring. He’s not too late. Before Bellamy’s even swung one leg over the thin rope outlining the ring, the new bouncer (he can never remember his name) is in his face, one hand pressed pressed hard to Bellamy’s chest. “Leave it.”

“I’m not letting my little sister get put into the hospital.” He growls through clenched teeth. The way the bouncer is standing blocks his view of the ring, but he hears the collective “ooh” of the crowd as the first punch lands.

Bellamy shakes off the bouncer’s hand and maneuvers around him, view clear enough for a moment to see his sister get thrown to the ground, sliding across concrete to the edge of the ring on the opposite side. He sees red, hasn’t even registered who’s in the ring with her – doesn’t care, really.

He springs forward, only to be stopped with two hands on his shoulders. “If you never let her try, how is she supposed to learn how to protect herself?” It’s Lincoln speaking low and calm behind him.

“Protect herself?” Bellamy laughs, but it’s mirthless. “There’s a difference between buying her mace and watching her get her ass kicked.”

Lincoln huffs a laugh of his own. “Just watch. She wants to prove herself to you. She’s stronger than you think.”

Bellamy turns on Lincoln. “And how would you know?”

“Because I’ve trained with her. Just watch.”

“This is insane.” Bellamy grumbles, even as he shuffles to stand next to Lincoln and turn his eyes to the fight. He’s not sure that he can say he _likes_ Lincoln, but he has a grudging respect for the man and at the very least appreciates the way that he seems to be head over heels in love with his sister. If there’s one thing that Bellamy is confident in when it come to Lincoln, it’s that he has Octavia’s best interest at heart.

When he refocuses on the fight, his sister has an open cut above her eyebrow, a split lip and a smile on her face that must be pulling at the split skin. He also finally gets a good look at her opponent – a woman who looks a few inches taller than Octavia, maybe a few years older, too, with dark skin and short, cropped hair. She’s spitting out blood when Bellamy focuses on the fight.

Octavia’s guard is sloppy – her hands too low, her feet grounded enough to restrict her movement. Bellamy’s unsurprised – but winces, tensing every muscle in his body to keep himself from jumping in after her – when she takes two quick shots to her face. She recovers easily, taking advantage of her opponent’s dropped guard to land a knee to her gut.

“This is a bad idea.” Bellamy says, mostly to himself.

“To be fair, I never said it was a good idea.” Lincoln admits. “Just that she wants to prove herself.”

Octavia throws a punch at her opponent, but the other girl grabs her outstretched arm, uses it to get Octavia back on the ground. She spikes a fist back to land what’s sure to be a finishing blow, but Octavia taps.

The second the flight is over, Bellamy bolts for his sister. She’s still laying on the concrete, eyes closed and breathing heavily. It’s on the tip of his tongue to yell at her, tell her she’s crazy, ask if she needs to be committed, but when he reaches her, the first thing out of his mouth is, “O, are you okay?”

She groans, bringing a hand up to her head and staring in awe at the blood it comes away with. “I’m okay.”

Bellamy sighs. “Come on, let’s go find you some medical gear.” Without hesitation, he scoops his little sister off of the floor and into his arms, shuffling awkwardly through the crowd. He usually knows where to find some first aid supplies – if not one of the nursing students Lexa likes to keep around – but he’s never _been_ here before, so he’s lost and more than a little frustrated.

“I can walk, you know.” Octavia puts up a protest, but it’s half-hearted. Bellamy is confident, though, that if she really wanted to be on her feet, she would be.

“I just had to find out from _Lexa_ that you were fighting tonight and then I got to watch you get punched in the face repeatedly. Humor me, O. But for the record, don’t think I’m not pissed about this.”

Octavia groans, throws her head back and pulls them both a little off balance with the move. “That was Indra – the RA I was telling you about? The one who got me into her boxing gym? We spar a lot. It’s just usually with, you know, pads. When Lincoln mentioned the Halloween fight night, I thought, you know, why not? I _like_ fighting. I like knowing how much stronger I get each week – not even just physically, but mentally. You get knocked down, you get back up again.”

Bellamy sighs, finally getting them to a quiet corner where Octavia can sit on a folding chair. “There’s a big difference between hitting pads with Indra or messing around with Lincoln and actually getting into the ring and fighting.”

Octavia’s breathing is back to normal and she’s rolling her eyes at him, so he doesn’t think there’s any permanent damage. She’s just sort of dabbing at the cut on her forehead uninterestedly with the corner of her t-shirt. “I’ve watched you get your ass kicked enough times to know that. Which, for the record, you really can’t be mad at me for getting in the ring when you do it _every week_.”

“That’s what Clarke said.” He admits, scrubbing a hand over his face.

Octavia quits fussing with her injury, turns the full force of her questioning eyebrows on him. (Never mind that raising her eyebrow in turn jostles the torn skin, making the cut sluggishly bleed again.) “You never did get back to me after you canceled on me for Sunday brunch. Does this mean you’re going to stop avoiding me and tell me?”

“I wasn’t avoiding you.” Bellamy grumbles. Though, he did dodge most of her calls all week, only checking in once to make sure that nothing was wrong. He was enjoying the bubble of solitude that he and Clarke were living in. “But, sure. I went over on Sunday and we, you know, actually talked. About – feelings and what not. It’s – we’re – I don’t know, but we’re _something_.”

“Finally!” Octavia squeals. “Where is she?”

“I don’t know. I had to leave her when we got here because I found out that my _sister_ was fighting.” He gives her a pointed glare.

“Well go find her. I’m fine. Besides, this guy will take care of me.” She nods over his shoulder where, sure enough, as a respectable distance away waits Lincoln. 

“This conversation isn’t over, O. You’re not getting back in the ring. Sparring at a gym is fine, but not here.”

Octavia’s grinning, the fatigue from after the fight clearly gone from her system now – adrenaline probably taking its place. “Sorry big bro, but I’m an adult now. I get to do what I want, even if you don’t like it. Just think of it as good training for the real world. No one’s going to mess with me when I’m a badass.”

“Let’s argue later when you’re not bleeding anymore.” His eyes dart to the thin line of blood oozing from the open cut on her forehead.

Bellamy hears Lincoln’s soft footfalls as he approaches. “I’ve got it.” And sure enough, in his other hand is a first aid kit.

“She needs a butterfly stitch for the eyebrow and see if there’s any – “

Lincoln holds up a hand, effectively cutting him off. “You’re not the only one who’s done this before. I’ll take care of her. Lexa said you’re fighting in ten minutes. You should probably go find your girl.”

Bellamy sighs, fingers running through his hair. “Thanks.” The word feels slightly less like sandpaper on his tongue than he would’ve thought, but, he reminds himself, as much as he doesn’t like it, he _does_ trust Lincoln with O.

With that situation squared away, he heads back to the other side of the room where he originally left Clarke, hoping that her ridiculous(ly cute) pajamas _do_ make it easier to find her in here.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super short chapter today. I probably won't be able to update again until Saturday or Sunday, so hopefully this will tide you over!

“There you are.” Bellamy breathes in relief when he spies Clarke at the edge of the crowd around the ring. He feels as though he’s run around the whole building – checking with Monty, Miller _and_ Lexa – before he’s able to find her with Raven and Jasper.

“How’s your sister?” Is the first thing she asks and if Bellamy weren’t already crazy about her, that might do it. He ditched her the minute they walked into an event that he asked her to come to at a place she’s never been to before filled with hundreds of people she doesn’t know when he _knows_ that she sort of hates people and he’s been gone for probably half an hour. Despite it all, her first thought is for his sister.

He grins, reaches out and grabs her tail for leverage to pull her closer so he can get both arms around her waist, mouth stretching into a full blown smile when she leans into him easily. “She’s going to be okay, might be a little crazy, but that’s not exactly new, either. Lincoln is patching her up, but it’s nothing too bad. She’ll be good as new in a few days.”

“Hm, does the death wish run in the blood?”

He shrugs. “Not exactly. Ask me again next time you draw me and I’ll tell you a story.”

“Did you know you’re fighting my boyfriend tonight?” Raven chimes in, pulling him back to the present moment.

“Uh, no, didn’t have a clue.” Bellamy unwinds one hand from Clarke, reaching up to scratch at the back of his neck. Things between he and Raven have been better, maybe even good, ever since he made it clear that he wasn’t interested in her. It’s crazy what being direct does – if only he’d realized the magic two months ago, then he could’ve saved himself and Clarke two months of tip-toeing. “Is that going to be an issue?”

Raven grins back at him. “Nah, he’s a Kappa, so he’s apparently known about this scene for a while. It was on his graduation bucket list to fight.” She pauses briefly, glancing around like she’s trying not to get caught, before continuing. “Don’t tell him I said it, but go easy on him, would you? He’s not exactly a veteran at this kind of thing.”

“Not too easy, though.” Jasper pipes in. “Apparently people are worried that being with Clarke is going to make you go soft. Lexa already had Monty recalculate your odds. Spoiler alert: they’re lower than they were.”

Raven nods in agreement. “No, not too easy. I don’t want Wick get any delusions of grandeur about being the next Ronda Rousey.”

Bellamy raises an eyebrow. “So make sure that he loses, but nothing that’ll make him hurt for longer than a few days?”

“You can be precise like that?” Clarke asks, neck craning up to look him in the eye, being so close. “Like if you wanted to, you could walk in there and do any kind of damage you wanted? Break two ribs: no problem. Bloody nose: not an issue. Concussion: easy peasy. Knock out: not a problem?”

Bellamy clears his throat slightly, willing himself not to look away from Clarke's eyes. In reality, the answer is yes. He’s been fighting “professionally” (if one wants to consider Lexa’s fight club the “professional” alternative to bar brawls and street fights) for almost six years and has been using his fists for self-defense for near on ten years. He’s learned exactly what it takes to do the kinds of damage Clarke is talking about and then some, but he’s not sure if that’s something that will freak her out.

Instead, he settles on: “I can make sure Raven’s guy taps before I have to knock him out, yeah.” As for making another guy tap, he's learned it's all an intimidation game, anyway. The clock ticking down to Raven's boyfriend's submission starts the second he gets in the ring.

“How long before the fight?” Raven and Clarke ask almost simultaneously.

“I’m probably already late.” He admits with a small shrug. Sure enough, at that moment, over a booming sound system he hadn’t even known was in the room, he’s called to the ring (with a none-too-small string of profanity on the part of Murphy who’s making the announcement.) He points one finger up toward the omniscient voice and asks, “Coming?”

“Of course.” Clarke tells him, smile spreading across her face. Bellamy takes the opportunity to lace his fingers through hers and start to tug her through the crowd. He can’t help but notice the similarity to the first time he brought her to a fight – the night he fought Finn. This time, though, its not only Jasper, but Raven as well who trails behind. 

When they reach the edge of the ring, he ducks under the thin rope. Lexa stands in the middle of the ring glaring in his direction, but he’s unfazed, keeping his attention on Clarke. “Anywhere in particular I should be looking to be bruised tomorrow?” He’s half kidding. Half. 

She ducks her head sheepishly before meeting his eyes again. “Actually, I was hoping that maybe you wouldn’t be battered in the morning?”

“Oh, really? New sketch ideas? Does this mean you're starting your project over again?”

“More like I’m not a fan of seeing you hurting and I don’t think I’ll be needing it as an excuse to see you in the morning.”

“I can work with that.” He tells her, unable to keep the smile off his face. “Kiss for good luck?”

Clarke rolls her eyes when he leans in, but there’s no heat behind it. She obliges him with a brief kiss, reaching out to nudge him further into the ring when she pulls back. “Good luck.”


	17. Chapter 17

This is the third time that Clarke has watched Bellamy fight. The first time, she was so focused on watching Finn get his ego properly deflated that she didn’t spare much of a thought for Bellamy. The second time, she’d been in the middle of a spiral of realizing how goddamn attractive he is that she’s spent the whole fight with tunnel vision, just watching his muscles bunch and flex. There’s been zero absorption of the whole thing that time either.

She tried not to think of it too much, how he’d show up every Sunday afternoon bruised and broken. When she only saw the aftermath, it was easy to not dwell too much on how it _happened_ and, well, he always seems so cheerful that she didn’t think much of it.

Watching this fight, though, for the first time as his – she’s not sure, but she’s definitely his _something_. There’s no doubt that part of her belongs to Bellamy, that’s for sure. Anyway, watching this fight is somehow more nerve-wracking. It feels more real as she watches him duck punches. Her heart lurches in her chest each time Wick throws a fist his way.

The first time Wick’s fist connects with Bellamy’s cheek, Clarke actually jumps – finds herself starting to hop the rope and get into the ring like she’s about to punch Wick back for him before Jasper grabs her arm and tugs her back, sparing a moment to quirk an eyebrow in her direction. So, she crosses her arms and busies her fingers tugging at the pilling fur of her onesie so she doesn’t do something stupid.

In reality, the fight probably only lasts for five minutes – it might be the shortest of the fights she’s watched Bellamy partake in. He takes a handful of shots from Wick, and dishes back at least as much as he receives. In the end, Wick taps after an uppercut leaves him a little wobbly on his feet. He walks out of the ring with probably nothing more than a few bruises and what is sure to be an aching body in the morning. Bellamy swaggers out of the ring like he was never even touched, despite the fact that Clarke is confident he’ll have a bruise blooming along his jaw in the morning. As per her expectation, he disappears afterwards – though not without a wave in Clarke’s direction -- likely to find Monty and his winnings.

“So, bucket list accomplished?” Raven asks, both hands reaching for Wick as he reaches the edge of the ring.

“Do me a favor.” Wick says, pulling his phone out of his back pocket. (For the record, Clarke thinks it’s probably a bad idea to keep a fragile glass phone in your pocket during a fight. The odds of falling on your ass and breaking it are far too high.) “Take a picture of this moment and show it to me next time I say I want to fight somebody.”

Raven chuckles and Clarke figures that the good humor is an indication that Wick is no worse for the wear from the fight. He makes an exaggerated pout, eyes big and round when Raven snaps the picture. “Let’s go get you some ice, okay?”

Wick nods. “Maybe a tub. A tub of ice sounds like a great place to be right now.”

“We’ll come with you.” Clarke offers, volunteering Jasper as well.

It turns out that the first aid supplies that are on hand are mostly limited to things that will actually patch people up – bandages, butterfly stitches, gauze, tape – rather than ice packs. Miller winds up scooping a bunch of ice from a bucket behind the makeshift bar into a plastic bag for Wick to hold over – well, varying places at random intervals.

“Is this it? Is this our lives now?” Jasper asks as Wick shifts the ice for the third time. “Are we officially people who come to underground bare knuckle boxing rings every weekend? Are we like Miller and Bellamy now?” He slams a hand on the bar to get Miller’s attention. “Is there some kind of initiation thing we have to do to be considered regulars around here.”

Miller stares at him, deadpan, for a long moment. “We only do it once a year. It involves a lot of nudity and chocolate pudding.”

Clarke is 99% sure he’s being sarcastic – the other 1% is blatant curiosity. “Do we get to eat the pudding?” Raven asks, fingers carding absently through the hair at the back of Wick’s neck. It’s actually really cute, Clarke has to admit.

“Who’s got pudding?” A vaguely familiar voice asks from behind Clarke.

“Little Blake!” Miller greets, filling in the blanks before Clarke even has a chance to turn around. “Heard you’ve officially gone clinically insane.”

Clarke finds Octavia standing next to an intimidating-looking guy who she recalls to be Lincoln. Octavia, though she’s grinning and standing straight on her own, looks decidedly worse than Wick. There’s blood drying in a jagged trail down one side of her face and her skin is darkening in a few places, a telltale sign of deep bruising that will continue to get worse for a few days yet.

“Yeah, Miller, because when you fight it’s ‘cool’ and when a girl does it she’s ‘clinically insane.’ That’s not sexist at all.” Octavia sounds seriously angry, but the way she sticks her tongue out at Miller at the end kind of shatters the illusion of feminist rage.

Miller just shrugs and takes it in stride. “To be fair, it’s been a long time since I’ve gotten in that ring. I think they’re all crazy regardless of gender.”

Octavia shrugs back and turns her eyes on Clarke. “Clarke Griffin, the only girl in the world with idiocy to rival Bell’s. I’m not sure if you remember me, but –“

Clarke holds up a hand to cut her off. “Octavia, of course I remember you. It might have only been one conversation, but it was a damn memorable one. Besides, Bellamy talks about you just about any time he opens his mouth.”

“Mostly to avoid talking about himself, I’m sure, not that I’m not as great as he makes me sound.” Octavia smiles, uncaring of how it must pull at her split lip. “You’ve got to tell me what’s going on between you two.”

Clarke hopes that the dim lighting of the abandoned room hides the flush that instantly flames her face. “I’m not exactly sure what to call it, but we’re – it’s something.”

Octavia nods and Clarke finds Lincoln smothering a laugh to her side. “That’s pretty much word for word what Bell said. I guess we can’t have expected you guys to completely get your act together in one week. So how did it happen? Bellamy’s been dodging my calls all week since he canceled on brunch last weekend.” Suddenly finds everyone’s eyes on her – Raven’s, Jasper’s, Miller’s, Lincoln’s and even Wick’s.

And if she weren’t already beet red, thinking of Sunday morning in her living room would’ve done it. Clarke stutters for a minute, unsure of what she’s supposed to tell Octavia – what Bellamy would want to tell her. She briefly considers that maybe Bellamy already _has_ said something about what happened and Octavia is now testing Clarke to make sure it’s true. Octavia seems, to Clarke, the type for subterfuge like that.

“I wouldn’t even know where to start trying to explain it, to be honest.” That _is_ honest at least.

“What are we trying to explain?” Bellamy asks, arm casually slipping around Clarke’s shoulders like they’ve been doing this for years – this relationship, whatever it is.

“How you and Clarke finally got your heads out of your asses and started smooching.” Miller chimes in helpfully.

“I plead the fifth.” Bellamy says immediately before turning himself – and Clarke – to face Wick where he’s pitifully pouting, melting makeshift ice pack pressed to the underside of his chin. “How are you doing?”

“Do you hate me or something?” Wick asks, wincing and shifting his jaw after speaking.

“Don’t take it personally.” Lincoln speaks for the first time. “About a month ago his sister and I broke it to him that we were dating and I was seeing blood in places there shouldn’t be blood for a solid week.

Jasper nods in agreement. “It’s true. The first time I came to one of these nights was to watch Bellamy knock out Clarke’s creepy ex-boyfriend, and I mean that literally.”

“Just keep up the ice and take a few Tylenol. A hot bath in the morning might not be a bad idea either. You’ll make it.” Bellamy tells him, reaching out to potentially pat Wick’s back, though he retracts his hand at the last minute.

They stay and chat for a while longer, keeping Miller company at the bar until Monty is released from his post for the night. It is, Clarke thinks, incredibly companionable. Two months ago, the thought of comfortably chatting with six brand new people – new boyfriend and ex-boyfriend’s other girlfriend both included – would’ve made Clarke laugh. But now? Now it feels like she might want to do it again next weekend. (Though she could do without watching Bellamy get punched in the face again. She might avoid that part next time.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably 2-3 more chapters from here - for real this time, though.


	18. Chapter 18

Clarke is on her way home from the grocery store in late-November when she runs into Finn for the first time since Bellamy knocked him out. She’s juggling four bags in her hands, thoroughly regretting her decision to walk to the store rather than drive, even if it is only three blocks from her apartment. She and Bellamy have somehow been conned into hosting “Friendsgiving” in Clarke’s apartment and they’re doing a trial run of some of the dishes this weekend. She’s loaded up with probably twenty pounds of groceries – cranberries, string beans, sweet potatoes, apples, pumpkin pie and whatever else Bellamy had thrown on her list. They didn’t go for a full turkey for the trial-run, just a couple of hens to test seasoning rubs.

She’s pausing on the corner, readjusting her bags for the third time since walking out of the store when she sees him. His hair has gotten even longer, hangs shaggy across half of his face, but he’s still instantly recognizable. It’s easy to see the moment he spots her, because he immediately straightens, standing taller.

Clarke finds that, though she’s far from excited at the prospect of talking to Finn again, she’s not about to run into traffic to avoid him. She stands patiently on her corner of the street, still willing the light to change in her favor as he approaches.

“Clarke.” He greets, voice a little breathless.

“Finn.” She mimics.

“You’re looking well.” He says, like they’re fake-amicable divorcees seeing each other for their one-a-year Thanksgiving exchange or something.

Clarke sighs, adjusting her bags one more time as the light changes. When she starts to cross the street, she hopes that Finn won’t follow. (He does.) “What do you want, Finn?”

“I know you were angry with me, but I guess I was hoping that after some time, you’d calm down and we could at least go back to being friends if you weren’t willing to take me back. It really wasn’t what you think, Clarke.” He sweeps a hand through his hair, every bit the pouty 90’s boy band member he looks to be.

She lets out another grunt as she adjusts again. “Honestly, Finn, I don’t care what was going on with you and Raven. You were never the right guy for me. It just worked out for the best that it ended sooner rather than later.”

Finn huffs. “Is this a Bellamy thing? You’re not really still with that guy, are you?”

Clarke stops at a bench and sets her bags down momentarily so that she can glare fully at Finn without having to be concerned with them. “This has nothing to do with Bellamy. It has to do with the fact that you’re self-important and overly-possessive, or maybe the fact that you seem incapable of truly caring about anyone else’s feelings. If you weren’t, then maybe you would have known that just _leaving the country_ isn’t equivalent to a break up and you would have recognized that distance shouldn’t change your feelings for someone.”

He opens his mouth to argue, Clarke is sure. Probably bring up how this should be _Raven’s_ defense and not _hers_ because it shouldn’t matter to Clarke how he was capable of hurting someone _else_. That’s definitely not a larger indication of character. Clarke holds up her hand to stop him before he can even start.

“You were never good for me even before that, Finn. There was never any chemistry between us and, if I’m being honest, you’re just _boring_.”

“I fought for you!” Finn accuses, apparently recalling the fight with Bellamy.

Clarke shakes her head. “No, Finn, you fought for yourself and your own ego. I’m not a prize to be won, but just in case the head trauma made you forget, you _lost_. Look, I’m just trying to get home so that I can make some dinner. If you don’t stop following me, I’m going to have to look into getting a restraining order and then we’re going to have to deal with all of that legal bullshit, so do us both a favor and just walk away.”

Mercifully, when Clarke picks her bags back up and starts struggling back down the street, Finn stays next to the bench.

______________________________________________________________

Bellamy had come over to help with the cooking – as promised – after his last class of the day. They chattered while they worked – Clarke catching Bellamy up on how her portfolio is coming together and how she’s dominating her science classes _without_ greater knowledge of Latin, Bellamy telling Clarke about his latest annoying student and how he’s doing whittling down his thesis.

It’s not until they’re sitting down to eat a dinner that could easily feed an army that Clarke wonders if she should tell him about Finn. She figures, given their history and how she and Bellamy actually reunited, he’d probably like to know. Clarke breaks it to him over the pie because she thinks he might get angry or worse, try to follow her around 24/7 again and it’s hard to overreact when you’re eating pie.

She waits for him to put the first bite of warm apple pie in his mouth before she says, “I ran into Finn today on my way home from the grocery store.”

Bellamy raises an eyebrow at her, but continues chewing slowly. When he swallows, he says, “Oh?”

Clarke cocks her head, honestly surprised by his lack of, well, anything. “Yeah. He spotted me when I was waiting for a light to change and came over to talk and _explain_ or something. I told him off and then threatened him with a restraining order.”

Bellamy grins. “That’s my girl.” Clarke flushes warm all over. Even after almost a month, it still thrills her to hear him casually say things like that.

“That’s it?” She asks once she can suppress her grin. “You’re not going to get all mad or crazy and pull him back into the ring next week?”

“No, because then I’d be _him._ ” He takes another casual bite of pie while Clarke blinks at him. “Do you want me to do something? I certainly can, I just didn’t think you’d be keen on it and it sounded like you had it taken care of.”

“No, no – I just…” Clarke swallows, choking around the words rapidly rising in her throat that she _knows_ she shouldn’t be saying, at least not yet. The trouble is though, she’s thought it now and she won’t be able to keep it down for much longer. It’s not fair to him to pretend, anyway. “I love you, Bellamy.”

The clattering of his fork dropping to his plate is deafening in the silent room.

“I know it’s only been, uh, like a month and that’s probably way too soon to say something like that but you _know_ that I’m terrible at relationships and just, you know, people so it was probably to be expected for me to do something stupid and I’m really sorry if that fucks things up because we really did have a good thing going here and maybe it could’ve been something really great and Jesus Christ you’ve got to say something that I stop talking now because I should really probably stop for air and I don’t usually do stuff like ramble but I’m kind of really nervous with how you’re looking at me and oh, now you’re standing and well, if you’re going to leave you should probably make it clear what leaving means because when Raven –“

The kiss he plants on her lips effectively silences her rambling. “You are the single most infuriating person that I have ever met in my entire life. Give me a chance to say something next time before you go into a full-on freak out, okay? I love you too, you idiot.”

As far as declarations of love go, it’s probably not going to be on any top ten lists for “most romantic” but Clarke thinks it’s perfect. For them, at least.

Clarke laughs as she kisses him back, relieved that her sudden declaration hasn’t ruined things between them, overwhelmed with happiness at how much her life has changed since that first week of school in August. She feels like she has full closure from Finn once and for all, confident that he’s not going to be popping out of the woodwork again to bother her – not that she’s been walking on egg shells for the last few months or anything. There have just been so many changes that she’s been waiting for _something_ to go wrong but here, with Bellamy warm and real under her hands, tasting like the cinnamon and nutmeg from the apple pie, she feels like she’s standing on solid ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well folks, that was the final official chapter.  
> Stay tuned for an epilogue! I'm hoping to have it up tomorrow.
> 
> There may be some of you who are thinking that there are a few loose ends left or mysteries you'd like to hear more about still, but don't worry. I'm potentially leaving this serious open for a few one shots of either future scenes or missed scenes that didn't quite make it into this timeline, so if there's anything you're specifically looking for, leave it in the comments and I may come back to it!


	19. Epilogue

Clarke’s art show happens during finals week at the university. Bellamy is more than a little excited for the show. For one, he hasn’t been able to spend more than ten minutes with her since Thanksgiving without her fingers flying over her sketchbook. He’s thrilled at the prospect of getting to spend true, uninterrupted time with Clarke and only Clarke. Secondly, Clarke has stubbornly _refused_ to show him any of her work for the show, so he’s eager to see some of her creations for the first time. 

For another, Octavia happens to finish school a week earlier than him, so she’ll be back in town for the show. As much as he’s slightly hesitant at the prospect that Clarke may have ended up including some of the nude drawings in her showpiece, it’s outweighed by how proud he is of her for working so hard this semester. He wants to show O how awesome his new girlfriend is. Besides, it’s been four months since he’s been able to truly traumatize Octavia and he definitely owes her – between Lincoln and the fight. It’s overdue.

Bellamy hasn’t been able to catch Clarke for _three days_ leading up to the show. (Octavia teases him mercilessly that Clarke has finally come to her senses and is dumping him via cold shoulder, but the moment he starts looking worried she’s quick to reassure him that Clarke is hopelessly in love with him. It’s marginally comforting.)

Finally, after the third call today, when he’s starting to feel clingy, Clarke picks up. “Hey, you.” She answers, sounding a bit breathless like she’s been running.

“Ready for the show tonight?” Bellamy asks, opting for casual instead of asking where she’s been all week and if she’s okay. He’s learning that losing time is one of the realities of loving an artist. (Just as Clarke has had to learn that nursing wounds is one of the realities of loving a fighter.) They’re both learning as they go.

“As ready as I’m going to be, I guess.” He can _hear_ the shrug.

Bellamy paces a small loop around the love seat. “Can I pick you up before hand?”

“Um,” Clarke pauses, “Actually, I think it’d be better if I went early to make sure that everything is looking the way it’s supposed to. Besides, I kind of want to see your face head on when you see it for the first time.”

Bellamy scratches absently at his neck. “I’ve seen myself before, you know. I do own a mirror.” (Translation: He’s dying to see what he looks like through her eyes.)

“Really? Hard to tell with the way you dress sometimes.” She’s laughing before he’s finished and he’s really missed her these last few days, missed hearing her voice when she’s teasing like this. It’s so much better than hearing O make fun of him.

“What’s the dress code for this kind of thing? I’ll double check in my mirror to make sure I’m not going to embarrass the great artist.”

Clarke sighs. “It’s kind of a fancy thing – semi-formal leaning towards a little less semi. A suit would probably be good. At least a collared shirt and a tie. Hey, I’ve got to go make some finishing touches before I get ready. Can you send out a group text and make sure that everyone knows not to come in sweats or something?”

“Of course.” Bellamy tells her. “Anything you need.”

“Alright. Okay, I’ll see you at eight, then.”

“Eight it is.” He says, pulling his phone from his ear to end the call.

“Hey, Bell?” He hears her voice, small through the air.

His phone is back at his ear in an instant. “Yeah, Princess?”

“Thanks for checking in. I love you.”

He smiles, whole body growing two degrees warmer. “Love you, too.”

Octavia picks out his outfit because, well, Clarke wasn’t lying about his hopeless fashion sense. She puts him in charcoal slacks and a light grey button up with a matching charcoal vest. The tie is plain black and she makes him roll his sleeves up.

“It’s not too casual?” He asks, actually double-checking himself in the mirror like he told Clarke he would. He feels underdressed in comparison to Octavia’s dress – it’s the one she wore to junior prom two years ago which was, by definition, a “formal” affair.

“Trust me, big brother, you look good. Let’s go. Lincoln said he’d meet us outside at 8:00 and he’s always punctual. It’s one of the many things I love about him.” Octavia still has that dreamy look in her eye whenever she talks about Lincoln. If Bellamy weren’t so happy that _she’s_ happy, he’d find it sickening. “And I told Jasper, Maya, Miller, Monty, Raven and Wick to meet us there at 7:45, so they should be there by 8:00, too.”

______________________________________________________________

Bellamy breaks from the rest of the group the moment they walk inside. He feels strange walking around in a big line of nine, like he’s got a bit part in Mean Girls or something. Besides, he’s not keen on playing the ninth wheel. Instead, he sets about trying to find Clarke. He’s looking for some wall of drawings of himself, so he doesn’t think it’ll be hard to find.

It takes him twenty minutes to find Clarke. She’s tucked into a back corner of an offshoot room and Bellamy already feels irrationally angry for her before he’s even gotten to look at her piece. When he _does_ see it, he’s irate for her, because it’s more amazing than he ever imagined.

The piece is – he’s not sure how to describe it in a way that will do it justice. It’s _not_ a wall of drawings of himself, bruised and battered. It’s not even any drawings at all. It’s a _painting_. There’s this giant canvas on the wall that’s probably as wide as Clarke is tall and his next thought is that he doesn’t know how she managed to get this here herself.

Most of the painting is in shades of grey. It looks, to Bellamy like a vicious storm swirling off the canvas and into the room. The paint is rough, like she slathered it on with a pallet. It makes him feel lonely and lost, scared. At the bottom of the canvas, not quite in the middle, is the one splash of color. It’s warmth, perfectly captured in gold and red tones, offset by two abstract silhouettes. The silhouettes are covered by one perfectly untouched white streak, almost like an umbrella sheltering them from the storm.

He doesn’t want to make presumptions, especially because Clarke never even told him anything about this painting, but it _feels_ like this is them? The piece, he sees on the plaque next to it, is titled “Shelter.” There’s a brief description under the title, but he’s not interested in reading it. Instead, he finally tears his eyes away to settle on Clarke.

She’s biting her lip, brows drawn down with tension as she watches him. “What do you –“

He doesn’t let her finish before he’s dragging her in for a kiss – art gallery etiquette be damned.

Clarke doesn’t _win_ the art show. She actually doesn’t even get the 2nd or 3rd place prize. Bellamy sees it as a positive because it means her painting _won’t_ be hanging in a university building, which means that he gets to bring it home and hang it in his apartment instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all she wrote! Thanks for sticking around with me through this one. All of your support and positivity really means a lot to me. :)
> 
> Just a reminder: There may be some of you who are thinking that there are a few loose ends left or mysteries you'd like to hear more about still, but don't worry. I'm potentially leaving this serious open for a few one shots of either future scenes or missed scenes that didn't quite make it into this timeline, so if there's anything you're specifically looking for, leave it in the comments and I may come back to it!


	20. Ch 5 Alternate PoV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy's perspective of his fight with Finn from Chapter 5.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Props to KatetheGreat whose complete takeover of my inbox last night inspired me to come back to give this bonus scene another shot!

It might be the hardest thing that Bellamy’s ever done – holding back and waiting, letting Finn think that he can hold his own ground in this fight. Every survival instinct he has tells him to go at Finn fast, delivering precisely enough damage to incapacitate him and make his point. But Bellamy doesn’t want to just _make a point_. No, he wants to make an example out of Finn. Wants to make sure that every damn person on campus knows exactly what he’s capable of doing for ~~Clarke~~ anyone who needs help. 

Sure. He would do this for anyone who needed it. Definitely.

Instead, Bellamy forces himself to remain calm, letting Finn come at him eager and sloppy so that he can deliver _maximum_ damage. He grits his teeth through the agony of watching openings fly by, waiting instead for Finn to completely drop his guard so that he can go for a shot that will leave Finn in agony for _days_. Finally, he takes the opening to land a solid kick to the right side of his ribs, aiming for his liver. He feels a savage sort of satisfaction when Finn staggers backward, clutching at his midsection and wheezing hard. He lands a kick to the kid’s chest because at least he can knock him on his ass that way – if he tries to breathe through that liver shot standing up he’s liable to have his body drop out from under him unexpectedly and smack his head on the floor.

Not the Bellamy’s averse to Finn passing out. He doesn’t plan on leaving the ring before it happens, actually, but _he’d_ like to be the one to get it done.

See, most people think that a headshot is the most effective way to dish out pain in the ring. The thing is, though, that when you get hit hard enough in the head your brain is too scrambled from being knocked against your skull to fully process the pain. A dirty body shot can deliver ten times the pain with no evolutionary reprieve from feeling it.

If Lexa were more merciful, it would be a TKO. Lucky for Bellamy, she couldn’t be more ruthless and, given that it’s a grudge match, she’s particularly lenient in how she’ll let Bellamy take his pound of flesh.

Since there’s no such thing as a TKO, Bellamy waits for Finn to give himself a big enough pep talk to come at him again. Second verse, same as the first. Bellamy doesn’t use his brain much when Finn comes back at him. He’s running on so much adrenaline by that point that he really can’t even say what happens until he’s crouched over Finn on the ground.

“Game over, Collins. Time to give her up.” Bellamy tells him, wanting to hear Finn’s resignation with his own ears, not even close to trusting that he’s going to abide by grudge match rules.

“Not a chance. All you’ve done,” Finn wheezes, each word sounding more pathetic than the last, “is make her see what a monster you are.”

Bellamy holds back a mirthless laugh and shakes his head. “I’m glad you think so, because then you’ll believe me when I tell you that if I find out you’re bothering her ever again I’ll dislocate every single knuckle on every single one of your fingers. Don’t worry, though. I’ve gotten pretty good at resetting them, so we can do it over and over again until you get the picture.”

He barely takes any pleasure in the knockout punch, though the flash of red on his fist as it flies makes him belatedly realize that he’s got blood on his hands. It’ll be a long time before he has the wherewithal to worry about whether it’s his own or Finns - though he does give a fleeting moment to hope that it's not a mixture. It’ll also be a long time before he’s willing to get within ten feet of Clarke. Bellamy meant what he said. Better Clarke and Finn both think he’s a monster if it means Finn won’t bother her anymore, but he knows how strung out he gets after a fight. It’s not something she needs to see as long as he can help it.

It’s the thought that he forces himself to cling to so that he can pull himself off the ground and walk out of the ring _away_ from her. She’s better off with Miller to watch out for her right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ages ago, back when I first posted this fic, there were a couple of folks who commented about what Bellamy might have said to Finn at the tail end of their fight. I always had a few half-thoughts about it, but nothing overly solid and it sort of made me curious, too. From there I started thinking we all deserved a look inside boxer Bellamy's head. I've started and scrapped this outtake/rewrite at least a dozen times in the last six months because I am decidedly NOT a boxer, but I'm finally decently pleased with this version. :)


End file.
